In The Air Tonight
by RocknVaughn
Summary: Post-Season 2 finale "The Telling" ...minus the last 2 minutes. This is what might have been if Vaughn had found Sydney before the Covenant took her...
1. Chapter 1

In The Air Tonight

By RocknVaughn

Summary: S/V, Post "The Telling" (Season 2 finale), semi-AU (last two minutes haven't happened). This story follows canon up until the last 2 minutes; that's where this story veers off into something that seemed more fitting for Vaughn's character.

A/N: This is an old story I wrote that I have chosen to repost in a more public place. I cannot guarantee that I will be adding any new chapters to this WIP past the ones I already had written (which are quite a few). That being said, the plot for this story is already fully-formed in my head and perhaps having it dangling in front of me here will help me be inspired to complete it.

- - -

Michael Vaughn strode from his apartment building into the crisp night air, whistling as he went. _Tonight_, he thought, _will be the start of something fantastic._ As he approached his car, he popped the trunk with his keychain remote, plopping a black duffel emblazoned with an LA Kings logo inside and shut the hatch. Looking up, he took a deep breath and stared up at the sky. It was a clear night and the stars were blazing and bright, nearly drowning out the light from the sliver of moon just above the horizon.

_So this is what it feels like to be normal. For perhaps the first time since joining the CIA, I __**am**__ normal,_ Vaughn thought. He opened the car door and slid inside, partially rolling down the window before starting the engine and putting it in gear.

The light breeze that blew through the half open window ruffled his hair as he drove. He switched on the radio and began tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, keeping time to the heavy bass beat from "In The Air Tonight" while he hummed along. He was in a good ~ no, _great_ mood ~ now that the longest debrief of his life was over.

Or at least it had _felt_ like the longest; way longer than the one last week, when he couldn't keep his eyes off Sydney and imagining what he was going to do to her the moment he got her home. A wicked smile tilted the corners of his mouth until his dimple showed as he recalled what happened after _that_ meeting.

Shaking his head, Vaughn tried to push his thoughts back to the present. A thrill of excitement that pulsed in his stomach intensified the closer he got to Sydney's apartment. He and Sydney were going away for a long weekend to Santa Barbara, just as they'd planned. For once in their lives, they were going to put themselves and their relationship first and let others deal with Sloane, Rambaldi, Derevko, and yes, even the "second double" for just a few days. God knows they had more than earned it.

Still, as hard as he tried not to, Vaughn couldn't help but mull over the developments from the past week. His initial investigation into the mole hunt had led him straight to Sydney's friend Will. All the pieces had fit… but Sydney had stubbornly refused to believe. She was the only one, with perhaps the exception of Jack, that didn't believe it. And luckily, this time her stubbornness paid off, because it ended up clearing Will's name. Even though he realized he was just doing his job, Vaughn felt a twinge of guilt for what had happened to Will. He mentally made a note to apologize to Will the next time he saw him. Will was a nice guy; the kind of guy you could imagine playing a game of pick up basketball with, or sharing laughs over a few beers.

Maybe sometime soon that would be possible…as soon as they found the _real_ double. Vaughn shook his head to clear it. _No more thoughts about work_, he chided himself. _Tonight and the rest of the weekend, we'll just be Syd and Mike on vacation…just like normal people._

Pulling up in front of Sydney's apartment, Vaughn turned off the engine. As he pulled the keys from the ignition, a sudden shiver crawled up his spine. Thinking it was just the evening air, he rolled up the window before climbing out of the car.

Vaughn couldn't explain it, but for some reason, that surge of excitement from earlier now had quickly become a lead ball in his stomach. Looking up the walkway towards Sydney's house, he couldn't place a finger on what it was that unnerved him. It was so quiet here… maybe _too_ quiet.

Trying to shake off the sensation of foreboding, Vaughn strode up the walk and rapped lightly on the door. As seconds passed in silence, the feeling of unnamed fear grew exponentially. He knocked a little louder, this time calling out worriedly, "Sydney?" Still no answer. His shaking hand tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. He turned the knob and pushed, stepping onto the threshold as the door swung open wide.

The only sound to be heard other than the sudden roaring of blood in Michael Vaughn's ears were his car keys, dropped from stunned, lifeless fingers, harshly clanking to the hardwood floor.


	2. Chapter 2

In The Air Tonight, Part 2

---

Michael Vaughn stood immobile in the open doorway of Sydney's house in horrified shock at the sight before him. Most of the furniture in the once homey living room was destroyed and glass from the coffee table was strewn all over the floor. The double doors leading to the patio had been smashed out; little pieces of wood that once held the panes of glass in place were all that remained. The kitchen was awash with drawers, utensils, broken plates and more glass.

Worse, everywhere in his sightline there was blood: blood smears on the walls made by fingers, drops of blood making perfect round O's down the hallway, a spatter of blood on the glass where the coffee table once stood, even a smear of blood across the tile kitchen counter.

Instinct and training took over and immediately, Vaughn whipped out his 9mm from the holster under his right arm. Cautiously entering the hallway, he peered his head around the wall into the kitchen and then back. He did the same in the living room, and as he whipped around the corner, gun at the ready, he saw a chilling sight: there, amongst the broken glass and wood was Sydney's CIA issued pistol.

A fevered determination swept over him. He ran back to the hallway, gun pointed down the hallway, yelling desperately, "Sydney!" He turned and kicked in the half-open door to the bathroom, watching it splinter as it ripped off its hinges. His crazed eyes scanned the room for a sign, _any_ sign of Sydney… Vaughn's stomach lurched as he careened toward the unmoving lump at the back of the room. "Sydney!" he screamed, falling upon his knees next to the white porcelain tub.

Vaughn's mouth gaped open as he found not Sydney but the battered, bloody body of Will Tippin hidden in the bathtub. Vaughn put two fingers on Will's neck, searching for a pulse. After a nerve wracking moment, Vaughn was able to detect a faint, thready pulse. "Oh, God… Will…" Vaughn said, seeing the gaping bloody hole in his abdomen. Reaching to the towel rack, Vaughn ripped up Will's sweatshirt and pressed the clean towels against his wound. Vaughn's hands were covered now covered in blood, but he couldn't be bothered with it. Only one thing was in his mind now: he needed to find Sydney.

He wiped his hands against his shirt and stood, pistol cocked once again. He called out her name desperately and stalked down the hallway to Sydney's bedroom. Whipping himself out from behind the wall, he staggered against the doorframe at the sight. The double doors leading to the patio from Sydney's room were broken in; glass littered the hardwood floor in glittering pieces. Among the glass and large pool of blood lay Sydney's friend Francie, eyes wide open, with three bullet holes in her chest.

He started towards her to check if she, too, were alive, when he thought he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He turned…and there she was. Sydney. Lying in what appeared to be an unnatural slump amid broken mirror shards beside her bed, a once-shiny .44 laying at her side, its handle now slimed by Sydney's own blood.

In that one moment, the world seemed to tilt and stop for Michael Vaughn. He couldn't think, feel, or even breathe. All he could do was fling himself toward her, screaming, "No, Sydney, no!"

In the back of his mind, it registered dimly that he'd just been sliced about a dozen times by the shards of glass surrounding her, but he couldn't care. He lifted his blood-coated fingers to her neck, trying to find signs of life. "C'mon, Sydney…" he breathed, trying to find a pulse and not feeling one; his slimy hands kept slipping around and leaving more red smears on her already bloodied body. Desperately, he rested his head against her chest, vainly hoping for the sound of her heart. "Damn it, Sydney!" he yelled, "You can't do this! You can't leave me!"

Finally, he heard her heart beating and knew she was alive. He shoved more glass aside and pulled her up, cradling her against him. "Sydney, please wake up…wake up, Sydney…please!?"

After what seemed to be an eternity, a feeble moan escaped her lips. "Vaughn?" she whispered weakly.

Relief poured through Vaughn at the sound of her voice. "Yes," he breathed, smoothing her hair back comfortingly. "I'm here, honey. I'm here."

She swallowed painfully, panting shallowly. Feverishly, she labored, "It was Francie, Vaughn…the double was Francie…she…she killed Will…she…"

Then suddenly, Sydney just seemed to melt. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped like a rag doll down Vaughn's arm, unconscious.


	3. Chapter 3

In The Air Tonight, Part 3

- - -

Michael Vaughn sat motionless for a moment, staring at the now unconscious battered form of Sydney Bristow in his arms. Bending his face down near hers, he called softly, "Sydney… Sydney…wake up…Sydney…" but it was apparent it would do no good. His medical training told him that she was going into shock.

Sliding her head and shoulders back gently to the floor, he reached up and grabbed a pillow from the bed, reaching down to prop her feet, then he stood and wrenched the blankets from her bed and wrapped them carefully around her, not noticing the streaks of blood he was leaving on the freshly laundered bedspread.

"Hang on, Sydney," he said, brushing stray locks of hair away from her face, and then he reached inside his jacket for his cell phone. He punched 3 on speed dial and waited impatiently for an answer. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon…pick up, damn you!"

The line crackled and then, "Kendall," came the clipped reply.

"Kendall, it's Vaughn. I need medical assistance and a tactical team sent to 231 Morning Glory Drive immediately. Sydney…" his voice broke. He cleared his throat, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, "Agent Bristow and Analyst Tippin have been compromised…and both appear badly injured and have lost a lot of blood."

Vaughn heard Kendall curse and then immediately give the order for the needed aid and then demanded, "What in the holy hell happened over there!?"

"The double…" Vaughn choked out, glancing over at Francie's mangled body. "She…"

"Did you secure the area, Agent Vaughn?" Kendall interrupted abruptly.

"What!?"

"_Did you secure the area!? Did you search the perimeter!? How do you know there aren't more of them out there, Mr. Vaughn_!?"

"I'm not leaving Sydney," came Vaughn's curt answer.

"I understand your concern, Agent Vaughn, but we need you to…"

"**I'm. Not. Leaving. Her.**" Vaughn spit between clenched teeth, holding one of Sydney's hands in his free one.

"Agent Vaughn! You need to…"

"**Go to Hell**!" Vaughn yelled into the receiver and then hung up on the arrogant bastard.

Hitting 2 on his speed dial, Vaughn was greeted with another terse voice. "Bristow."

Jack was in his car; Vaughn could hear road noise in the background. "Jack…Vaughn. It's Sydney…she…" Vaughn was so distraught, he couldn't continue.

Concern immediately colored Jack Bristow's voice. "What? What's happened?"

"She and Will….both attacked….," Vaughn panted, tenuously grasping to coherence, "Francie…it was Francie……." After a long moment of staring at Sydney lying oh so still and pale, he continued, "Jack…she could be….dying…." The last word was barely a whisper.

Jack's fear and concern instantly congealed into fierce determination. "Hang on; I'm on my way," he said, hanging up and flooring the accelerator.


	4. Chapter 4

In The Air Tonight, Part 4

---

Tossing the phone up onto the bed, he gave Sydney his full attention. Even though his rational side realized she couldn't hear him, he kept talking to her. "It's going to be all right, Syd. Help is on the way. You just hang in there. You can do it…" If anything, the words were meant to calm him as much as her. He could feel his sanity being stretched thinner and thinner with every second that ticked by.

Unknown and unnoticed, tears ran down Michael Vaughn's cheeks. There was no way to hold his emotions in check any longer. In his worst nightmares, he'd imagined what this moment might be like…but he'd been wrong. The real thing was a thousand times worse than any nightmare. She was slipping away from him and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

- - -

Jack Bristow was terrified. While he would never admit it to anyone (not even himself), Michael Vaughn reminded him of himself when he were younger. He was smart, determined, had a certain disregard for rules; but was a top-notch agent who only had one flaw: He loved Sydney. He loved her and would do anything for her. So to hear Vaughn, normally so calm and in control, barely able to form words…he knew this was bad.

Within three minutes of Vaughn's phone call, he was screeching to a halt in front of Sydney's house. Not even taking time to shut his car door, he jumped out and ran up the front walk.

The horror of the gore and destruction that confronted him almost unnerved him, but he held on to his grim determination to help his only daughter. "Vaughn!"

"In here… Jack, hurry!" came the choked response.

Jack bolted down the hallway into Sydney's bedroom. The crumpled, bloody heap of Sydney's childhood friend lay on the floor near him. Ignoring it, he turned and met the desperate, wild eyes of Michael Vaughn. Vaughn himself was bleeding from several cuts in his hands and the legs of his pants were shredded in several places around the knees from the broken glass all around him. His shirt, pants, hands, face and even hair was streaked with blood, but Jack doubted that Vaughn had even noticed. Indeed, Vaughn looked as though he were beyond rational thought.

Standing over him, he said flatly, "Where's Tippin?"

Vaughn looked up at Jack in confusion. He saw Jack's lips moving, but couldn't make out the words.

Jack reached down and grabbed Vaughn by his upper arms and shook him hard. "Where is Tippin!?" he repeated.

"He's…he's in the bathtub…"

Jack turned on his heel and strode to the bathroom. Kneeling before the porcelain tub, he checked for a pulse (still thready and weak) and then moved the bloody towels aside to check Will's wound. One, clean but deep stab wound in his right abdomen. A small rivulet of blood trickled from under his body to the drain.

Standing back up, he stalked back into the bedroom. Vaughn hadn't moved. He sat, holding Sydney's hand, whispering comfort to her over and over. Grabbing Vaughn under the arm, Jack forced the shaken man to his feet and forcibly turned him to face him. "Go help Tippin," he told Vaughn.

Vaughn was sure he hadn't heard Jack properly. "What?"

"You need to go help Tippin. He's bleeding badly and needs pressure applied to his wound."

Vaughn flatly refused. "I'm not leaving her."

"Agent Vaughn, you have an fellow officer down and in need of medical assistance," Jack insisted coldly.

"I'm not leav-…"

Jack shook Vaughn again, hard. He understood that kind of determination; hell, he'd _defined_ it. But Jack knew Vaughn needed to do something else, or he was going to lose it entirely, and Vaughn needed to be more in control when the team arrived. "You are not doing her any good in here. You're barely coherent; you're losing blood yourself. If you want to do something, then help save her friend's life."

Vaughn looked uncertainly back at Sydney. "But.."

Jack shook Vaughn once more, forcing him to make eye contact. Once he knew he had the young man's full attention, he said earnestly, "I know you…love her…but she's _my_ daughter."

A silent understanding passed between the two men; Vaughn acquiesced with a short nod and headed toward the bathroom.


	5. Chapter 5

In The Air Tonight, Part 5

- - -

With Vaughn gone, Jack took off his sport coat and carefully laid it down next to Sydney's wrapped body, covering the remains of her mirror to protect himself. Then he knelt down, checking her carotid artery for a pulse, which was there, but not beating as strongly or as regularly as he would have liked. Her breathing was shallow and labored and beads of sweat covered the forehead of Sydney's otherwise pale face.

Clenching his jaw in anger and pain at seeing his daughter in this condition, he pulled back the blankets to assess Sydney's other injuries. She appeared to have at least three broken ribs, a broken wrist and maybe more. She was bruised, scraped and contused, and there were several cuts that appeared to still have glass shards in them. Jack didn't dare move her or bandage her wounds for fear of unseen glass that could be pushed deeper and cause more damage. Things were already bad enough. With the fever she was forming, Jack was almost certain Sydney had sustained internal injuries as well. He could only hope the ambulance would arrive soon.

- - -

Vaughn flicked the light switch on the wall of the bathroom, suddenly bathing the room with harsh white light from over the sink. The image of Will's bloody body haphazardly dumped in the bathtub instantly brought another image to mind: police photographs from the crime scene of Daniel Hecht's murder.

_Had Sydney seen this!?_ he wondered, his heart breaking, knowing how much it would have affected her, would have reminded her. He figured she must have; it appeared that the fight between herself and Francie ~ no, AG Dorran, he reminded himself ~ took place all over the house.

Turning, Vaughn opened the closet door and removed clean pillowcases and new towels. He placed them on the floor next to the toilet and then reached over to try and position Will to make his wound more accessible.

The gash in Will's side was smooth and deep; blood continued to spill out and dribble down his side, staining the tub a vivid red. Tossing the already bloody towels he'd used earlier aside, Vaughn quickly packed the wound with the smooth cotton pillowcases and then used the towels to cover them. He exerted gentle pressure and watched as small spots of red formed around the edges of his palms.

Vaughn was alarmed at the loss of blood Sydney's friend had apparently sustained and hoped to God that Will could hold on until help arrived.

- - -

Outside, two silent ambulances pulled up in front of the house, while three unmarked black vans surrounded the house on other sides. Agents dressed in black gear streamed from the vans, spreading out over the grounds, looking for other suspects…all except for one. Eric Weiss came bursting in through the front door, yelling, "Mike?" He skidded to a stop as the devastation around him sank in. A note of urgency and panic tinged his voice. "Mike!? Where are you, man?"

Not bothering to turn around, Vaughn answered, "In here."

Eric ran to the open doorway of the bathroom. The sight he found shocked him into silence. Vaughn with blood in his hair, on his shirt, his pants, his jacket. From his vantage point, Eric could even see a piece of glass sticking out of a seeping slash on Vaughn's right thigh a couple of inches above the knee. He looked like _he_ had just been through combat. But Vaughn appeared to be aware of none of this; his sole focus seemed to be on whatever he was pressing on. Stepping into the room, a tinny taste filled Weiss' mouth, the kind that usually preceded vomiting. Hitching in a shaky breath, not wanting to see what he knew he would see, he stepped to the right of Vaughn to see the bloody body of…. Wait. Was that… Will Tippin!?

"Jesus, Vaughn," Eric gasped. "What _happened_ here?"

"I don't know," Vaughn replied. "I don't know if the double did this before she attacked Sydney, or if he tried to intervene during the attack… but I'm guessing it was before, based the amount of blood lost."

Softly Eric asked, "Where's Sydney?"

Vaughn swallowed hard, trying not to lose control now that Eric and the others were here. "She's…she's in the bedroom…with Jack."

"Jack's here!? How did he know?" inquired Eric, astounded.

"I called him…right after I…"

"Hung up on Kendall… Yeah, I heard about that…" said Eric, smirking, trying to bring a little bit of levity to a horrific situation. "Trust me, everyone in the _Ops Center_ heard about that…"

"I'm sure…" agreed Vaughn.

Suddenly, a medic appeared behind Eric. Peering between the two men into the bathtub, He asked Vaughn, "What have we got here?"

"Stab wound," Vaughn replied. "It's clean, but it's deep and he's lost a lot of blood. Has a pulse, but it's very weak."

The medic nudged Weiss out of the way and lifted the makeshift pressure bandage to inspect the wound. "Hmmm, doesn't _appear_ to have hit any major arteries… punctured the liver, perhaps a kidney.. We're gonna have to move him, stat." He turned and spoke into a walkie-talkie attached to a strap across his chest. "We're gonna need two gurneys and two bags of hemoglobin, stat." Then he reached across and moved Vaughn's hands out of the way, saying, "I'll take it from here."

Vaughn pulled his hands away from the pressure dressing, his whole palms covered in blood. He pushed himself to stand and was about to move toward the door to check on Sydney when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Uh, buddy…don't you think maybe you should wash some of that off?" Eric asked. He'd never seen his friend like this…so…out of touch. But then, Sydney had never been in this kind of danger before, either, and he knew that weighed heavily on Vaughn's mind.

Dazed, Vaughn looked down at his hands, not really seeing them. "Oh, yeah. I guess." He turned the tap, leaving a reddish smear, and then ran his hands under the cool water, watching the water turn pink and then swirl as it was sucked down the drain. _That's someone's life I'm washing off…someone's life flowing down the drain…_, he thought feverishly. Sydney's, Will's, the real Francie's… Suddenly he felt responsible for the death of them all.

Eric reached around Vaughn and shut off the tap, handing Mike a hand towel. Now that the excess blood was gone, Eric could see that Vaughn had several of his own cuts creasing his palms. "Come on, Mike. You need to snap out of this; Sydney needs you."

"Sydney…" Vaughn breathed and then turned the corner to the doorway of her bedroom, just in time to see the EMTs securing the belts over Sydney's pale, still form. A thick cushion lay beneath her.

Jack walked up to Vaughn and addressed him directly. His lips were pursed, his face grim. "She's got a big piece of glass wedged in her back between her shoulder blades. They were afraid to remove it here, so they cut a hole in the cushion to pad around it until they can get her to the hospital." Nodding once to acknowledge Weiss' presence he continued, "She's got five broken ribs, a broken wrist and multiple internal injuries. Still, at this point, there is some optimism that she can make it."

"There's _optimism_ she can make it!?" repeated Vaughn incredulously. "What the hell does _that_ mean!?"

"It means," Jack answered in his cool, succinct way, "That until they can assess the extent of her internal injuries…they just don't know."

As they wheeled Sydney's stretcher down the hallway, Vaughn stepped up his pace to catch up, telling the medic, "I'm going with you."

"I'm sorry, sir, but you…"

"**I'm going with you.**" Vaughn repeated, determined. He would not take no for an answer.

The medic began to protest, but Jack came up behind him saying, "No, he needs to go; he also has sustained injuries." To Vaughn he said, "I'll take care of everything here; we'll get your statement later. Go and get yourself looked at."

Vaughn nodded, grateful. As much as he didn't understand and sometimes intensely disliked Jack Bristow, their mutual love for Sydney was one common ground they could always agree upon.


	6. Chapter 6

In The Air Tonight, Part 6

- - -

Another medic came up along side of Michael Vaughn, putting an arm underneath his to carry some of his weight. "Come along, sir; let's get you into the ambulance."

Vaughn gave the man an odd look. _Why the hell does this guy think __**I**__ need help all of a sudden?_ He tried to shrug the man off, but the EMT insisted, tightening his grip around Vaughn's shoulder. "No, sir; you have a large piece of glass in your right leg. I don't want you putting any more stress on it."

Confused, Vaughn looked at the man beside him, and then down to his leg. Sure enough, there was a bloody piece of glass protruding from his thigh. Immediately, he shifted his weight to his other leg and allowed the medic to help him out to the ambulance.

He waited, watching, as one ambulance, the one carrying Will Tippin, zipped away down the street, lights ablaze and sirens howling. They loaded Sydney into the other van and then another medic turned to help heave Vaughn on board without bending his leg. One medic turned to slam the back doors shut while the other urged Vaughn to lie on the empty gurney beside Sydney. "You'll need to lie down here, sir. We want to check for other injuries."

Vaughn followed his instructions and gingerly lay down. A rumbling jolt and a loud siren told him they were on their way to the hospital. Immediately, the medic began cutting up the length of both legs of his pants to expose any other injuries he might have. Vaughn said to him loudly, to be heard over the siren, "My name's Michael…Michael Vaughn. You don't have to call me sir."

The man looked up from his task and smiled. "All right…Michael. Now, I'm going to have to remove this piece of glass; you'll need to stay very still." The medic reached for a topical anesthetic to apply to the wound, but Vaughn stopped him.

"Don't bother with that…just remove it." The man looked up, shocked. Vaughn continued, "It's all right; I can take it. Just do it."

The man raised a curious eyebrow, then said, "Okay…" As Vaughn watched, he gingerly pressed a finger to either side of the slash to open it slightly, and with his other, he grasped the glass between a gloved thumb and forefinger and pulled. It came out cleanly; Vaughn didn't even flinch. The EMT set the piece of glass into a kidney bean shaped bowl along the wall. Clearly impressed he said, "Okay… Okay, now I'm going to dress the wound. It'll need stitches." After a moment of bandaging the cut, he continued, " Now let me see those hands."

As Vaughn turned up his hands palms up, he turned his head to look at Sydney. He could barely see her; there were three medics surrounding her in the cramped cabin of the ambulance. He tried to hear what they were saying, but it was hard with all the noise of the van and the siren. He caught bits of phrases: "Blood pressure 90 over 30….bleeding internally…breathing shallow…near the spine…lost a lot of blood…another pint…"

Vaughn saw one of the EMTs replace a now-empty bag hanging from an overhead hook with a fresh blood bag, and then bend down, assumably connecting the bag to Sydney's arm. "Sydney…" he whispered in anguish. He'd never actually gotten to tell her that he loved her. He felt sure she knew; he took for granted that she knew…but he'd never actually said the words.

The voice of one of the EMTs working on Sydney filtered through his consciousness. "Is she your wife or something? Fiancée? Girlfriend?" he asked over his shoulder.

Shaking his head sadly, Michael replied in a choked whisper, "No, not my wife…" suddenly wishing to God that she was. "No, she… she is my _everything_."

Vaughn felt a comforting hand on his shoulder and met the compassionate eyes of the medic who had been dressing his wounds. "We're almost there, Michael. Don't worry; she strong…looks like a real fighter. She'll make it."

Michael Vaughn could only hope and pray that the medic was right.


	7. Chapter 7

In The Air Tonight, Part 7

- - -

The arrival at the hospital was like a blur to Michael Vaughn. As the ambulance screeched to a stop, the doors burst open and a flurry of doctors and nurses swarmed the back, their talking jumbling together in Michael's ears until all of it was incomprehensible. All he knew was that they were whisking Sydney inside in one hell of a hurry…and not him.

Raising a bandaged hand at the retreating entourage as if that would stop them, he cried, out, "No, wait!" He started to get up off the gurney with the intent of chasing after them, but he was pushed back down to the mattress by the medics that were working on him.

"No, Michael," said the one who had spoken to him earlier. "You need to stay here; we're still applying bandages and pulling out glass slivers from your legs." The other medic added, "Yeah, geez…It looks like you went _swimming_ in glass, here. What the heck did you do, anyway?" he asked as he picked out another sliver with a pair of tweezers.

Vaughn ignored him, instead keeping his attention on the first medic. "But… Sydney --"

"-- is being rushed into surgery, so you couldn't be with her anyway," the man finished. "But, I promise you that as soon as we've got you cleaned up and set up inside, I'll go find out her status, okay?"

After a long moment, Vaughn nodded once, and lay uneasily back onto the gurney.

- - -

Fifteen minutes passed before the EMTs believed they had removed all of the slivers of glass from Michael Vaughn's hands, knees, and legs. They strapped him onto the gurney and lowered it out of the ambulance and wheeled it into the emergency room of the hospital.

Immediately a physician approached them. "Is this the third one?" the doctor asked.

"Yes," replied the medic that had promised to check on Sydney's condition for him. "Other than a 2 inch gash in his right thigh, and a slash across his left palm, his wounds are mostly superficial."

The physician nodded. Briskly he motioned toward the left. "Bring him into Room 3… I'll have the nurse come in and get his insurance info, and then we can get down to business." They wheeled him into the examination room and carefully hoisted Vaughn from the gurney to the exam table, setting him down gently, with the ease of having done this task thousands of times before.

"The nurse will be in in a moment. I'll try to find out what is going on with your friends… but it might take a while," said the medic who'd promised to help Vaughn.

"Thank you, Mr.…" Vaughn squinted to read the man's name badge and nearly choked. "Rambaldi!?" Vaughn shivered involuntarily, breaking out into a cold sweat.

The man instantly broke into a toothy grin. "Yeah, that's right; Rambaldi… Jake Rambaldi." He laughed at what he thought was a comical expression on Vaughn's face. "Why? Do you know someone else with that name?"

Vaughn swallowed the lump in his throat and, trying to force himself to breathe, rasped, "Yeah."

Jake strolled back toward the bed and leaned on the counter facing across from Vaughn. "Huh. Really? I've never met any other ones…I mean, besides _my_ family. Despite it being Italian, I've discovered it's not a very common name. What's the name of the guy you know?"

"Milo," Vaughn answered, still shaken. "Milo Rambaldi. But I don't know him; he lived 500 years ago. I…uh, I've been studying his work. For a graduate dissertation I'm writing. In philosophy."

Jake looked up and repeated, "Milo…." as if trying to place the name. After a moment he replied, "Oh, wait… Is he that crazy guy that worked for the pope?"

Vaughn nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Yeah….I think…Yeah, my great grandma used to tell us stories about him when we were kids… She was _really_ old…" Jake laughed, not noticing Vaughn turn slightly pale. "Or maybe she wasn't that old. But at least she _seemed_ that way to an 8 year old, you know? My sisters and I, we'd go visit her sometimes and she'd always tell us about him. We ate it up. It was like listening to ghost stories around the fire at camp, but better because it was about someone you're related to…"

Vaughn's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. "You…you're _related_ to Milo Rambaldi!?"

Jake shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly. "Yeah, I guess so. He's like a great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather or something like that….maybe there's more 'greats' in there…How many would you need for 500 years?" Jake shrugged it off as if the answer really didn't matter to him. "Anyway, at least according to my great grandma, he was. Don't normally go around bragging about it though, seeing that most people have no clue who he is, and the ones that do think he was a complete nutcase."

Vaughn's heart pounded in his ears. Something felt truly…spooky…about this coincidence. "Uh, Jake…do you…? Would you mind if I called you sometime? I mean, I'd like to hear some of these stories your great grandmother told you…It would be fascinating to write about Rambaldi from the, um, _family's_ point of view."

"Sure," Jake agreed easily, pushing away from the counter he'd been leaning on and reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and extracted a business card. Turning it over, he wrote a number on the back before extending it to Vaughn. As Vaughn started to reach out for it, Jake pulled it back. "Oh, hey, let me put it in your jacket pocket…" he pointed toward Vaughn's hands. "You might bleed on it." He pulled out the lapel of Vaughn's jacket and placed it inside the interior pocket. "There. Hey, let me go check on your friends… I'll get back to you as soon as I can, all right?"

Vaughn nodded, and then watched as Jake crossed the room, pulled open the door and exited. As soon as the door had thumped shut, Vaughn reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the card. Under the logo for Simmons Ambulance Service it read: Jacob Rambaldi, Emergency Medical Technician. Turning the card over, Jake had indeed written a telephone number on it…one that sent another shiver of foreboding up Michael Vaughn's spine. The bold handwriting read: Jake ~ 632-4747.


	8. Chapter 8

In The Air Tonight, Part 8

- - -

Michael Vaughn jumped like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar when the door to his room suddenly swung open. He quickly shoved the card back into his front shirt pocket and looked up to see it was only the duty nurse walking in carrying a clipboard. Standing before him, she looked down at her clipboard saying, "Okay, Mr….Vaughn… yes?" She looked up at him questioningly.

"Yes," he replied. "Michael Vaughn."

Nodding professionally, as if it were every day she stood having conversations with people spattered in blood (which it probably was, Vaughn mused), she continued, "Right. Mr. Vaughn. I just need to get some information from you and then we can get you cleaned up for the doctor, okay?"

"Okay," Vaughn agreed and proceeded to answer the nurse's questions. After a few moments, Vaughn interrupted, "Excuse me, but do you have any news about Sydney Bristow?"

"Bristow?" the nurse repeated. "Oh, you mean the woman that came in the ambulance with you? No, I'm sorry; I haven't heard anything yet. All I know is that she went right into surgery."

Vaughn nodded and fell into anxious silence. The nurse told him sympathetically, "I'll be right back. I'm going to bring in an orderly and we can help get you out of those clothes and get you cleaned up."

After a moment, she returned with a young orderly, who was carrying a dressing gown and a set of scrubs. Between the three of them they were easily able to shed Vaughn's coat and shirt. The nurse simply cut the remainder of Vaughn's pant seams all the way up to the waist on both sides and carefully peeled away the top, taking care to not let the fabric stick in any of Vaughn's wounds. She slid the bottom portion of the pants out from under him and then placed both pieces into a large plastic bag along with his shirt, jacket, and shoes.

"Wait, where are you going with those?" he asked the nurse, now sitting on the table in his underwear and socks, his voice tinged with panic. He didn't want to lose that card from Jake Rambaldi. He had a feeling it was very, very important he not lose it.

"Nowhere," she responded with a polite smile. "I'm just going to put them over here." She deposited the bag on a plastic chair across the room. Then she gathered up a cotton cloth and a plastic bowl. Filling the bowl with warm water out of the tap, she set them aside and changed her latex gloves. "Okay now, Mr. Vaughn…"

"Michael," Vaughn interrupted.

"Michael," the nurse responded with a small smile. "I'm going to get you cleaned up a bit before we put the gown on you. Is that all right?"

"That's fine."

Nodding to the orderly, who stood back against the wall unobtrusively, the nurse picked up the cloth and dipped it in the water, lifting it to squeeze out the excess water. "If you wouldn't mind lying down, I'd like to clean off your face and hair."

The orderly stepped forward to help Vaughn slowly lie back onto the table. The nurse lifted his head, placing a white towel underneath. "Okay, here we go, Michael…Close your eyes, I'm going to start with your face…"

Vaughn closed his eyes and immediately pictured the lovely face of Sydney Bristow. The gentle swabs of the cloth on his skin reminded him of her soft kisses on his cheek. Sydney had such soft skin. As the nurse's hands moved to his hair, removing the traces of blood from it, Vaughn's mind drifted to how much Sydney liked to run her fingers through his hair, how she often did so when he was making love to her…His mind drifted to the last time they'd made love, so full of laughter and teasing, so frantically erotic on the living room couch while her roommates were away…

A couch that was now tipped onto its side, one leg broken off. In a house now covered in blood and glass…with dead bodies on the floor…with _Sydney's_ body on the floor…

Vaughn sucked in a violent breath and forced his eyes open. He didn't want to see that picture; he didn't want to think of that memory…even though he knew that vision would be frozen in his mind forever. In that moment, Vaughn felt he could truly empathize with how Sydney must feel every time she thought of Danny Hecht. Did all of her happy memories ultimately drown in the horror of her last sight of him? Did she, in time, find a way to dull the pain and remember better days? Vaughn prayed he'd never need to find out.

"There now," the nurse said, dropping the dirty cloth into the biohazard trash receptacle with a wet thump. She used the towel his head rested on to dry his hair and face. "Doesn't that feel better?"

"Ahem…yes, thank you," Vaughn replied. He didn't want to let on that he was actually very distraught.

"Okay then, let's get the gown on you and get the doctor in here to sew you up," she said with a kind smile that told him that she could see through his attempt at being brave. She could see in his eyes that he was bluffing. She helped his arms into the gown and then shuffled off toward the door. "I'll be back in a moment with the doctor, okay?"

Vaughn nodded, and the nurse and orderly vacated the room, leaving him alone again with his thoughts ~ thoughts that invariably drifted back to Sydney.

Right now, they should have been on their way to Santa Barbara, discussing the various ways Sydney planned to "kick his ass" at hockey, or the best way to procure Weiss a girlfriend (_A sweet, funny guy with a horrifically bad approach,_ Sydney had once said of Eric). She would slide herself across the bench seat of his government-issued sedan and snuggle up next to him, head on his shoulder, her silky hair draping down his arm. Maybe she'd even go into great detail as to what she wanted to do to him the minute they arrived at their destination. She'd done that the day of the mole hunt briefing and it had driven him insane.

Michael smiled wistfully at the memory. After their frenzied coupling, they'd snuggled contentedly together on the couch, confident in the knowledge that they had plenty of time to spare before Will and Francie got home… a belief that proved sadly incorrect. The sound of a car door slamming out on the street a few minutes later had caused Sydney to bolt upright from her comfortable position in Vaughn's arms. She padded, catlike, on her toes over to the front windows, slightly bending down a blind slat to peer outside.

Gasping, she'd whispered frantically, "Vaughn…it's Will; Oh, God…he's coming up the walk!" Just like teenagers about to be caught by their parents, both of them scurried to pick up their scattered clothes and then streaked down the hallway into Syd's bedroom, giggling like children. Sydney got her bedroom door closed with a silent click a split second before Will's key turned in the lock. Syd stood next to the door, listening, holding a finger up to her lips, signaling for Vaughn to keep quiet. They listened as Will went to the fridge, got out a beer, popped the top open, and then retreated into the living room, where he plopped himself onto the same sofa Vaughn and Sydney had just vacated. Sydney dared to peek out the door a crack just as Will's hand reached into the couch cushion crevice, searching for the television remote. Taking a sip of his beer, he pulled out the remote, which was attached to…of all things…Sydney's recently discarded bra.

Sydney clapped a hand over her mouth, which had formed a wide "O" of shock, and actually started to blush. After Will's initial reaction of, "What the…?", he blithely tossed the item into the hallway in the direction of Sydney's bedroom and, without even looking over his shoulder, deadpanned, "All right, you rabbits, keep it in the bedroom, would ya? The rest of us are trying to watch quality TV, here…" to which Sydney simply burst out laughing…one of Vaughn's favorite sounds in the whole world.

Sydney had even given that "encounter" a pet name: the 'Point Guy' Incident. The whole rest of that week, whenever she wanted to tease Vaughn or make him blush, she would come up behind him in public places (like in the middle of the Ops Center, for example) and whisper, "_Hey, Point Guy…_" After a while, all she'd have to say was "P.G." to elicit a reaction. She loved having that power over him, he thought, and truthfully, he loved letting her have it.

Vaughn's smile faded with the realization that he might never have even one more moment like that with Sydney. Tonight in the car, when he'd kissed her lightly and told her he'd see her after the debrief, he hadn't told her what was hiding in his heart. He had felt that the backdrop of a beautiful beach in Santa Barbara would be a more appropriate place to make his first declaration of his true feelings to her. But time and fate conspired against him, and were now plotting to take her away from him.

It was a harsh lesson, but one he knew he would never forget: "more appropriate" times might never come; better to make use of the time you have. He knew that if given the chance, the words he had hesitated to speak would be the first ones from his mouth.

Hopefully, he would have the chance.


	9. Chapter 9

In The Air Tonight, Part 9

- - -

The nurse, closely followed by a doctor, interrupted Michael Vaughn's thoughts. Smiling slightly in greeting, the nurse said, "Michael, this is Dr. Robbins; he'll be taking care of you."

Dr. Robbins looked Vaughn over from head to foot, taking a quick inventory of injuries and then consulted his medical chart. Then, meeting Vaughn's eye, he inquired, "So..Michael… Can you tell me what happened here?"

_Could I tell you what happened!?_ Vaughn thought sarcastically. _That's a really good question. Well, first I discovered a colleague half-dead in a bathtub. Then I found my girlfriend's best friend since childhood shot three times in the chest. Then I found the love of my life crumpled on the floor like a rag doll, having __**shot**__ said friend. __**Then**__ I find out that said friend was __**not**__ said friend, but a body double of said friend… And now no one in the whole damn hospital seems to know whether my girlfriend is dead or alive… How's __**that**__ for a sum up!?_

But Vaughn simply replied, "I…fell into some broken glass."

"Uh, huh," the doctor concurred. "Must have been quite a lot of it."

Vaughn nodded, not willing to go into further detail. The doctor must have sensed this because he cleared his throat and said, "Okay, well, let's have a look at your thigh." Dr. Robbins removed the pressure bandage the EMTs had applied to the wound. Immediately, blood began to seep out of it, dribbling down the side of Vaughn's leg. Turning to the nurse, he said, "Sponges, please…"

The nurse opened a cabinet door and retrieved a package of surgical sponges and a towel. Dr. Robbins grabbed a sterile set of long tweezers from a tray on the counter. "I'm sorry, Mr. Vaughn, but before I can stitch this up, I'm going to have to check for any remaining pieces of glass in there. I can anesthetize the area first, if you like; this might be painful."

Vaughn shook his head, setting his jaw determinedly. "No," he replied. "I'll be fine."

Dr. Robbins assessed Vaughn for a moment, as if trying to decide if he thought this man could handle the pain. Then, he nodded to the nurse, saying, "Make sure you keep sponging this; I want to make sure I can see what I'm doing."

"Yes, doctor." The nurse swabbed the area with a clean sponge.

Vaughn's breath hissed through his clenched teeth as the doctor prodded around the wound with the tweezers, but he didn't flinch. After a moment, the doctor nodded, satisfied, and set the now bloody tweezers aside.

"Well, you'll be happy to know that the EMTs did an outstanding job of getting that gash clean. You did cut a small vein in there, which is why you're still bleeding so much. We're going to have to fix that first." Vaughn nodded his understanding. For the first time since it happened, he could feel his thigh throbbing painfully with each heartbeat. But, in a way, he was grateful for the sting, because at least it told him he could still feel something other than the dull numbness that had surrounded him ever since he'd arrived at Sydney's house.

Dr. Robbins turned to the nurse. "Type him, and then get me a pint." Turning to Vaughn, he explained, "Just a precaution. You've probably lost a bit of blood from this." The nurse swabbed a sample of blood from his wound and capped the swab in a plastic tube. As she turned to go, Dr. Robbins said, "Send in Nurse Sanchez with a suction… I want to get started on this right away." The nurse nodded and left.

The doctor focused his attention back on Vaughn. "We'd like to put you under for a bit, just so we can repair the damage to your—"

"No." Vaughn denied flatly.

"But it would make it easier to –"

"No," Vaughn said again. He needed to be awake and alert. He needed to find out what was happening with Sydney.

Dr. Robbins sighed, acquiescing. "All right, we'll do it your way. I'll need to inject a local anesthetic near the wound, but you will still feel some of the pain."

"Fine."

Nurse Sanchez arrived, rolling in a suction machine. "Give the patient a local, I'd like to get started," the doctor informed her.

Nurse Sanchez looked at Dr. Robbins, dumbfounded. After a moment, she protested, "But… doctor…"

"Patient's request, Nurse Sanchez," he answered, anticipating her concern. After a quizzical look at her patient, she complied with the doctor's request. The anesthetic stung for a few moments before it blessedly numbed Vaughn's entire upper leg.

"Lay back, Mr. Vaughn," ordered the doctor, "and get comfortable. This will take a little time."

- - -

After 20 minutes of repair work to his vein and another 20 to sew up the gash, Dr. Robbins checked Vaughn's left hand and sealed that cut with butterfly enclosures before rewrapping it with fresh gauze.

"Well," he told Vaughn, admiring his handiwork, "I'd say you're going to be just fine. Those scars will be minimal, but just be mindful of the stitches in your leg. If you overexert for the next week or so, you could reopen the wound." To the nurse he said, "Keep him until he's finished that pint and then he's free to go," pointing to the half empty bag of A positive blood now dripping into Vaughn's right arm. "Good luck, Mr. Vaughn." Dr. Robbins extended his right hand; Vaughn did the same.

"Thank you, doctor," he replied. "But, can you please check on the status of Sydney Bristow? She's supposed to be in surgery."

After writing a few last comments on Vaughn's medical records, Dr. Robbins placed the pen in his front coat pocket. "I'll see what I can do," he replied and left the room.

Nurse Sanchez spent another moment cleaning up the examination room and checking Vaughn's IV before telling him, "Okay, I think you're all set. I'll come back and check on you in a few minutes."

Vaughn nodded his approval, and she left. She had been kind enough to raise the head of the table so that he was half sitting up now, which was infinitely more comfortable than being flat on his back. Still, it was eating at him that he'd gone nearly two hours without any word on Sydney's condition.

Just when he'd given up hope that he would hear anything at all about Sydney's condition, the door to his examination room creaked open, revealing his new visitor to be none other than Jake Rambaldi, the EMT from the ambulance.

Vaughn's eyes widened a little in surprise; he'd figured the medic had been called away for another job and hadn't gotten the opportunity to fulfill his request.

"Hey…" Jake said, smile lines crinkling around his eyes. "You're looking a lot better than when I left you…"

"Thanks. I thought maybe you'd gotten another call or something…"

"Nah," Jake replied. "Your run was at the end of my shift. Just had lots of paperwork to catch up on. Not to mention that the nurses upstairs kept stonewalling me about getting info on your friend." Then Jake's grin widened conspiratorially. "But, well, the head nurse on the ICU ward…she's got a soft spot for me…"

Instantly, Jake Rambaldi had Vaughn's complete attention. "What did you find out?"

"According to the surgeon's report, she had a severe concussion, a broken wrist and four broken ribs, one of which punctured a lung. The piece of glass wedged in her back was only about a ¼ inch away from severing the spinal cord, but they were able to remove it successfully without complication. She suffered some internal bleeding near her liver and stomach, which they were able to stop, and probably at least one of her kidneys is bruised. Could have been a lot worse. They transferred her to the ICU ward about ten minutes ago." Jake reported.

Vaughn asked breathlessly, "Does that mean she's going to be all right?"

"I wouldn't go to that extreme yet," Jake explained. "They're concerned about swelling on the brain and whether she'll suffer renal shutdown due to the kidney bruising. The next 24 to 48 hours will be crucial to her recovery."

"But she survived the surgery…" Vaughn pressed.

"Yes, she survived the surgery…which is a good sign. I told you she was a fighter."

Vaughn smiled softly. "Yes, she certainly is." _You have no idea how much of a fighter she is,_ he thought, but kept it to himself.

At that moment, the door to the examination room burst open, announcing the arrival of Jack Bristow, with Eric Weiss trailing close behind.

Jake Rambaldi was taken aback by the very forceful entrance and looked nervously from the frightening steel-haired man to Michael and back. He gave Michael a meaningful stare which all but screamed, _Are you okay? Do you need help?_

Vaughn shook his head slightly and smiled. "Jake, I'd like you to meet Jack Bristow…" motioning in Jack's direction with his bandaged hand, "…Sydney's father. And this," motioning toward Weiss, "is my friend Eric."

Jake gamely thrust his hand out to Eric and nodded to Jack. "Nice to meet you," he said.

"And this," Vaughn motioned toward Jake, "is one of the EMTs who helped me in the ambulance…Jake Rambaldi."

Only a lone muscle in Jack's eternal poker face twitched, but Weiss started choking. "Did you say your name was _Rambaldi!?_ As in _Milo Rambaldi_!?"

Jake looked at Weiss very curiously, "Yeah…."

Vaughn cut in before Eric gave anything away. "Oh, don't mind Eric," he told Jake. "He's spent many a late night helping me do my research."

"Research?" Eric echoed, confused.

Vaughn looked at Weiss meaningfully. "Um, Eric? You know, research? For my philosophy thesis? About Milo Rambaldi?"

"Oh! Yeah, stupid me." Weiss recovered. "Sorry," he said to Jake, "don't mind me…I'm usually in bed by now; not all the pistons are firing."

"No problem. Speaking of the time, though; I probably should go. I got an 8 a.m. shift tomorrow." He headed toward the door, but stopped.

Turning he said to Vaughn, "You still have my number, right?"

"Uh, yeah, I still have it. Why?"

"I was thinking maybe you could call me in a few days and let me know how your friend's doing. We're not supposed to get attached to our patients and all, but well, I figure once in a while won't hurt…" he smiled.

Gratitude shone in Vaughn's eyes. "I'll do that, thanks."

"And maybe sometime after we can get together for a few beers and I can fill you in on all that crazy Rambaldi stuff you asked me about."

"Sounds like a plan." Vaughn tried to keep the tone of his voice light.

Eric turned and gaped at Vaughn, but luckily Jake didn't see this; he'd already turned and walked out the door.

Once Weiss regained the ability to speak, he breathed, "Oh, man, he's a _Rambaldi_!? And he knows stuff about ol' Milo? How the heck did you find out about _that_?"

Jack looked at Weiss, annoyed. "Never mind that now!" Staring down Vaughn, he demanded, "Where is she?"


	10. Chapter 10

In The Air Tonight, Part 10

- - -

Michael Vaughn wasted no time with small talk. "She's in Intensive Care. According to Jake, she made it out of surgery and was admitted to the ward about ten minutes ago."

"Condition?" Jack demanded.

"Severe concussion, broken wrist, four broken ribs, punctured lung, internal bleeding, bruised kidneys," Vaughn rattled off Sydney's symptoms like a grocery list. "Stable for the time being, but they are concerned about swelling on the brain and renal failure."

Jack's jaw twitched, as if the news physically caused him pain. "And Tippin?"

Vaughn shrugged apologetically. "I don't know."

Jack turned to stare at Weiss. Eric immediately got the hint. He put up his hands in the universal sign of surrender. "Okay, okay, I'm going…" he said, practically bolting from the room.

Looking back at Vaughn, Jack continued as if there'd been no interruption. "And you?"

"Nothing serious," answered Vaughn.

Jack gave Vaughn a pointed once over, taking in every detail of the condition of the young man. This was even more uncomfortable than usual for Vaughn, considering he was wearing nothing but a short hospital gown, underwear, and socks. He fought the impulse to squirm.

Instead, Vaughn raised his chin defiantly. "I'm fine," came his clipped reply.

Jack nodded once. "Good. Then when they release you, I expect to see you upstairs in ICU. We need to go over the details of the events of this evening."

Nurse Sanchez took that inopportune moment to check on Vaughn's progress with the IV. As soon as she saw Jack, she instructed, "I'm sorry, sir, but there are to be no…" She trailed off as Jack turned, his powerful stare on her. Her voice petered out for a moment before continuing tremulously, "…visitors in the exam rooms. Please leave." It came out as more a plea than an order.

Luckily for her, Jack was in an obliging mood. He nodded once in her direction and swept out the door, his long gray trench coat billowing out behind him.

Nurse Sanchez looked rattled. "Who was that!?" she breathed.

"My girlfriend's father. She was brought in the same time I was," Vaughn explained.

"But…he was carrying a gun!"

Vaughn tried hard not to smile. He found it amusing how much fear Jack Bristow could instill in people with just one look. "He's in law enforcement," he answered vaguely.

The nurse looked relieved. "Oh…whew! For a moment there, I thought maybe he was in the Mafia or something…scared the begeezus out of me!"

Vaughn chuckled. "I'm not surprised. He tends to have that effect on people." He grinned at the nurse to put her at ease.

She returned his smile as she worked to pinch off the tube from his IV bag in preparation for removal. "Did you say he was your girlfriend's father?"

Vaughn nodded.

She shuddered. "I'd hate to have _him_ for a father-in-law. That was one sca-ry man."

"He does take some getting used to," Vaughn admitted. "But trust me; Sydney's worth it."

"Sydney? Oh, you mean your girlfriend, right?" Nurse Sanchez deduced.

"Yes. She'd be worth dealing with _five_ of him…"

A smile lit up the diminutive, dark-haired nurse's face. "You must really love her, then…"

Vaughn's face fell. "Yes… I do," he replied sadly.

The nurse removed the IV tube from Vaughn's arm, quickly placing a gauze square over the hole and bringing his forearm up to squeeze the cotton between his upper and lower arm. "What's so bad about that?"

"I haven't told her," Vaughn explained. "She doesn't know how I feel about her."

"Nonsense," Nurse Sanchez replied, waving her hand in dismissal as if she were shooing a fly. She brought Vaughn's arm back down and secured the gauze inside his elbow crease with surgical tape. "Raise your arm, please," she instructed, helping Vaughn to raise his arm straight up in the air.

"What's nonsense?" Michael asked her, watching her efficiently bustle about, cleaning up the room's equipment in record time.

"What you just said," she responded, glancing at him with a warm smile. "Sure, you may not have actually _said_ the words 'I love you', but I'm sure she knows."

"Why do you think that?" Vaughn pressed.

She laughed, as if it were a silly question. "Because anyone with half a brain could tell you love her! It's in the way your eyes sparkle when you talk about her. It's in your voice when you say her name. It's on your face when you think about her: your face…it glows… So of _course_ she knows…"

"Yeah, well… Sydney's got some trust issues. Not with me, per se; but she's had some difficult experiences in her past." _Now __**there's**__ a serious understatement…_ Vaughn thought. "I think maybe she'd have a tough time believing it without me telling her."

Nurse Sanchez motioned to Vaughn that he could put his arm down and then patted his hand consolingly. "Now, now, maybe it's harder for her to trust what she's feeling and what she feels from you, but deep down; she knows it."

Vaughn looked dubious.

"If you're really this worried about it, then just tell her as soon as she wakes up," the nurse suggested.

"I plan to," Michael replied.

"Good man," she agreed. She ripped a page off a clipboard and handed it to him. "Okay, doctor's orders…keep off that leg as much as possible for the next few days to prevent re-injury. It was a very deep cut. Otherwise, just make sure to change the dressing on it and the one on your hand at least once a day. Keep them clean and dry. The stitches in your leg and hand will dissolve on their own." She motioned to the chair that held his belongings. "All your things are there. We brought you a pair of scrubs to change into…"

Vaughn nodded his understanding of her instructions. "Thanks."

"Will you need some help changing? I can send in the orderly if you like…"

"No, that's fine; I'll manage."

"All right, then," the nurse nodded. "Good luck."

"Thank you."

Nurse Sanchez left the room, closing the door behind her.

Michael Vaughn slid off the examination table, wincing as he placed weight on his injured leg. _Evidently, the anesthetic has worn off,_ he thought, impatiently pulling the hospital gown off and tossing it in a heap on the table. He hobbled across the room in his boxers to the chair containing his clothing and the scrubs. Picking up the scrubs in one hand, he used the other to plop the bag of his belongings onto the floor. Then he gingerly lowered himself into the chair and began to dress.

Once he was clothed in the green scrubs and had put on his shoes, he reached into the plastic bag to retrieve his wallet and other items. Vaughn was shocked to see just how much blood covered his clothing. He hadn't noticed any of it earlier; he'd been too worried about Sydney. The pictures of how he'd found Sydney and Will flashed in his mind, and he shook his head to dismiss them. He refused himself the comfort of self-pity right now. All that mattered was Sydney.

He rifled through his pants pockets until he found his wallet and set it on his knee. Then he checked pockets in his coat and shirt until he located the card given to him by Jake Rambaldi. Looking at it again, he couldn't help but feel there was a _reason_ for Jake to have come into his life at this moment in time. He knew it sounded insane, but he couldn't seem to shake the feeling.

Carefully placing the card into his wallet, he slid it into the back pocket of the scrub pants. Vaughn stood up, and then reached down to pick up the plastic bag. Walking over to the examination table, he took the yellow piece of paper with the doctor's instructions and shoved it into the front breast pocket of the green scrub shirt.

Limping just slightly, Michael Vaughn exited the exam room; determination etched on his features. He was a man on a mission: he was going to see Sydney.


	11. Chapter 11

In The Air Tonight, Part 11

- - -

Rounding the corner of the nurses' desk, Michael Vaughn was surprised to see Eric Weiss waiting for him.

"Hey, man," said Weiss enthusiastically, smacking Vaughn on the back. "Good to see you up and around again."

"Thanks," Vaughn replied as they continued to walk down the hallway away from the emergency room. "How's Will?"

"Still in surgery. But the good news is that even with all the blood loss, he's still alive. If he survives the surgery, the doctors believe he will make it," Weiss explained.

"You just find this out?" Vaughn asked, moving so fast despite his wound that Weiss had to half-run to keep up with him.

"No, I've known for about 15 minutes," Weiss answered, panting. He grabbed Vaughn by the arm and pulled him to a stop. "Hey, where's the fire?"

"I've got to see Sydney," he answered.

"Jack's up there with her; she's safe."

Vaughn nodded and started walking again. "Hey, weren't you supposed to report back to him?"

"Yeah."

"Then why didn't you?" Vaughn asked. "I mean, not that I'm not grateful that you waited for me, but…"

"I wasn't going back up there alone! Mike, you haven't been _around_ Jack the last couple hours! He's been more cranky than a caged, bee-stung bear!" Weiss complained.

Vaughn raised an eyebrow. "And that's new?"

Eric huffed, "No, Mike, you don't understand! He's about ten times worse than normal. I rode to the hospital with him?" Weiss put a hand over his heart. "Took ten years off my life, man. I swear…"

"Maybe he's just worried about Sydney," Vaughn suggested, stopping before the elevator and pushing the 'up' button.

"Yeah, well, we're _all_ worried about her. That doesn't mean I try to kill myself, and an innocent co-worker along with me, I might add, _several_ times on the way to the hospital!" Weiss complained. "He's got a really warped way of showing concern for someone, you know?"

"Well, Jack Bristow seems to have problems expressing _any_ sort of emotion," Vaughn concurred, stepping into the open elevator bay.

Weiss followed him. "Except for anger. Anger he does reeeeaaaaally well…"

As the elevator doors shut in front of them, Vaughn smirked. "Agreed."

- - -

In the darkened ICU room, Jack Bristow stood, a silent sentinel watching over his daughter. All around him monitors blipped and beeped, and each one was attached to Sydney. Concern was etched into his normally stoic, granite features. In her young life, Sydney had lost so much…too much, it seemed, for any one person to bear. Yet, bear it she did, with so much strength and endurance that it made him incredibly proud to call himself her father, although it was a title he felt sure he didn't deserve.

It had been since before Irina left that he'd been able to truly express the depth of his love to his only child. After "Laura's" disappearance, and his subsequent incarceration, he'd become a hardened shell of the man he once was. Convinced that the only way to protect Sydney was to push her away completely and entirely, he followed this plan to the letter. And it had worked, much better than anticipated. By the time Sydney had reached high school; they were barely on speaking terms…which, while it hurt, had been, in his belief, the best thing for her. She was better off not learning to lean on anyone, not to expect love from anyone, since both only led to betrayal of heart and mind.

It had only been in the last two years, since Sydney had found out the truth about SD-6 and joined forces with him to destroy it, that he had truly learned the depth of what he had lost years ago. His plan had failed; he had not been able to protect her from the kind of life he led. All he had done was leave his precious daughter vulnerable. _He_ had allowed a monster like Arvin Sloane to fill voids in her life that never should have been there. _He_ had caused her to reach out to others to receive a poor substitute of the unconditional love he felt but hadn't shared. _He_ had placed her in the clutches of evil because he was too afraid to give and receive love again.

Staring down at his little girl, so pale and still in the bed, made him feel unexpectedly furious and, of all things, helpless. He had done everything in his power to protect Sydney from harm. He'd begged, borrowed, and stole; he'd tortured, murdered, and deceived, and, in the end, all it did was postpone this moment. Jack Bristow, Senior CIA Field Agent, master strategist, always in control, could not save his own daughter; could not outthink the enemy in time. He fought the sudden urge to put his fist through the wall; he didn't think the duty nurse would appreciate his redecorative efforts.

The sudden chiming from Jack's cell phone seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Reaching into his coat's inside breast pocket, he retrieved the phone and punched the "talk" button. "Bristow," Jack answered irritably.

"Jack…?" was the low, sultry reply.

Jack physically bristled in response to the voice. "What in _hell_ do you want, Irina?" he asked, his voice dripping with hatred.

"I want to know how Sydney is, Jack. I would think you would know that," came Irina's straightforward response. "She is, after all, my daughter."

"You gave up your right to call her your daughter thirty years ago," Jack informed Irina coldly. "Where the hell are you!?"

"That is not something you need to know," Irina responded in her succinct, no nonsense way. "But there is something you _do_ need to know: I had _nothing_ to do with the placement of the double. That was something that was done without my foreknowledge by Sloane and Sark while I was in CIA custody."

Sarcasm oozed from Jack's every pore. "Why do I have a difficult time believing that? You obviously knew enough to ambush Sydney in France to retrieve the intel on the double, and then used that intel to blackmail her into cooperating with you."

"It was the _only_ way to get Sydney to listen to me! She can be as hard-headed and stubborn as her father at times," Irina explained.

"She has nothing on her mother," Jack returned.

"Jack….stop trying to insult me and _listen_ for a moment! Use your head! I _had_ to make Sloane and Sark believe I was sticking to the plan, while still being able to give Sydney the information she needed to save her friend. I needed to have something to hold over her in order to make her listen, in order to give her the information about the whereabouts of Sloane."

"Intel which turned out to be a set-up," Jack concluded. "You can try to convince Sydney that you have her best interests at heart, but your act no longer works on me. The only interests you care about are your own." Jack's tone changed from angry to mocking. "I haven't figured out your game yet, Irina, but you can be sure that once I do, you _will_ pay for all you've done. I warned you once about involving Sydney in your endgame. Obviously you didn't take my warning seriously. A time will come when you will wish you did."

Irina sighed impatiently. "Jack, now is not the time to trade barbs…there is too much at stake. Sydney's _life_ is at stake."

"Yes, it is, thanks to you," Jack seethed.

"Jack, you _must_ listen to me!" Irina insisted. "Sydney is in grave danger."

"She will be under 24 hour surveillance; I will _personally_ oversee her protection. I will make sure she is safe, _despite_ your efforts…"

"You don't understand. What I told Sydney in Mexico City is the truth; _she_ is the woman of the Prophesy, not me. I have spent many years attracting attention to myself, collecting Rambaldi artifacts, so as to mislead Sloane. But he knows; somehow he now knows that I am not the One. He must have deduced that it is Sydney."

Jack started to respond, but Irina cut him off. "The Rambaldi device, Il Dire…I tried to get Sydney to go after Sloane, to retrieve it before it was too late, but she would not. Instead she followed me and he got away. Once Il Dire is activated, something terrible will happen to Sydney. Armed guards and bullets will not protect her, Jack." Irina explained forcefully.

Jack's patience ran out. "I have had enough of your games, Irina. This conversation is finished."

Irina frantically tried to stop Jack from hanging up. "Jack…No, Jack…wait!" But it was too late; he was already gone.

"Damn it!" Irina cursed, smashing her cell phone against the wall in frustration. As much as she had hoped that she could make Jack see reason, she should have known it wouldn't work.

Now she knew she had no choice; time was of the essence. With her hand tipped and her duplicity known to her enemies, she had run out of options. There was only one move left she could make…the one that could save—or curse—them all.


	12. Chapter 12

In The Air Tonight, Part 12

- - -

Michael Vaughn swore to himself that this must be the longest elevator ride in history. It was only 7 floors, but it felt as if it was taking forever. "Do you think there's something wrong with the elevator?" Michael asked Weiss anxiously.

Eric looked at Vaughn as if he were crazy. "Mike, we've been in here a total of what?" He glanced at his watch. "…_Eight_ seconds? No, I don't think we've fallen into a crack in the space-time continuum…at least not yet." Eric smiled at his own wit…until he noticed the worried look on Vaughn's face. "Hey, buddy…you okay?"

Vaughn sighed, running his left hand through his hair and wincing, having forgotten about the injury. "Yes…no…I mean…"

"You mean you're worried about Sydney, right?" Eric finished.

"Well, yes. But it's more than that. I really love her, Eric," Vaughn tried to explain.

"Tell me something I _don't_ know…" Eric muttered, but he trailed off when Vaughn gave him a very nasty look. "Sorry."

"Fine. You know it and I know it, but…"

Eric cut in, smirking, "Yeah, and practically everyone in the Ops Center knows it. After the infamous 'Spy Sex' tape…I'd say that's a given…"

Vaughn's eyes goggled, his train of thought completely lost. "What!? How do you know about…?"

Eric put his hands up to calm Vaughn down. "Whoa, Mike…chill. I didn't _see_ the tape… I just _heard_ about it."

Vaughn's face darkened like a storm cloud. "From _who_?" he enunciated slowly, a slow rage beginning to boil.

At that fortuitous moment, the bell for their floor dinged and the doors slid open with a soft hiss. Weiss took the opportunity to put a little space between himself and his enraged friend. "Geez, Vaughn…don't shoot the messenger, huh?" Eric paused, and then, "Craig _might_ have mentioned it to me."

"And where the hell did _he_ hear about it?" Vaughn asked softly but menacingly, stalking out of the elevator. He was pissed. He didn't necessarily care about their relationship in general being fodder for the water cooler crowd, but that tape was a voyeuristic view into a very special and private moment between he and Sydney, and that was _not_ something he wanted joked about.

"He overheard Marshall telling Jack and Kendall there was something they needed to see… that he'd found video from the camera found hidden in Sydney's bedroom and that the two of you were, well, ah, _compromised_. Kendall and Jack rushed off to the briefing room with Marshall, and didn't come back for a _while_. I mean, like a _long_ while, man," Eric explained.

Vaughn stopped short. _Oh, God…,_ he thought, _I don't like where this is going…_ He didn't speak, but Eric could tell Vaughn expected him to continue.

"When the three of them finally came out…" Eric shook his head. "Kendall looked as if he couldn't decide to be angry or amused. Marshall was so red and sweaty; you'd think he'd just run a marathon. And Jack was fuming—I mean, liv-id."

If they had spent as much time reviewing the intel as Weiss had inferred… which they would have _had_ to, if only to discover if any classified intel had been revealed… then all of them knew at he and Sydney were more than colleagues…_much_ more…

"It's not too hard to put the pieces together, Mike: video intel that compromises _both_ of you… shot from a hidden camera in Sydney's _bedroom_…and the reactions from the three of them after the meeting. And they way they all left you two alone to view the tape…Come on; it was pretty obvious."

Vaughn's face blanched. _Not only had the double watched us making love to each other for the first time… so had the head of the Ops Center, Sydney's father, even the damned tech op! And worse, most likely Arvin Sloane, Irina Derevko, Sark, and God only __**knew**__ who else had, too. As evidence, it would forever be on archive at the NSA. This was a nightmare—no, __**worse**__ than a nightmare! Things like this just don't __**happen**__ to people… they just don't,_ he thought angrily.

Vaughn uttered a long string of expletives and threw a punch at the wall next to the elevator and connected with great impact, leaving knuckle prints in the white-painted plaster.

Just as he was about to take another swing, Eric grabbed his arm and pulled it back down. "Whoa, whoa…Mike…calm down! I know the whole thing sucks, but that's no reason to break all the bones in your hand…Do you really wanna spend more time down in the Emergency Room?"

Vaughn shrugged off Eric's arm, but did not try to hit the wall again. "Damn it," he swore. "It's just that Sydney and I _never_ get a break, you know? We try like hell to just be two _normal_ people…"

"Well, that's your problem," Eric interrupted, "because, I hate to break it to you… you two are _not_ normal people, and if that's what you're shooting for, you'll be in for a long wait. You're _international spies_! That tends to complicate things a bit."

Vaughn sighed, running a hand down his face and leaning dejectedly against the wall. "I know…but how will we ever be happy, always having to look over our shoulders all the time?"

"Hey, I don't know…I'm not Buddha. I haven't got all the answers. All I do know is that you gotta do what's right for you, and sometimes that means not playing by the rulebook. Your relationship with Sydney doesn't follow rules. So what? Doesn't mean you can't find your own definition of happiness within all this craziness."

Vaughn stood for a long moment and considered Eric's advice. Then, with a small grin, he teased, "Are you sure you're not Buddha? Because that was pretty profound. Can I rub your stomach for luck just in case?" Vaughn reached out toward Eric's torso, smirking.

Eric took a step backward and smiled back. "Not on your life, buddy. I don't _do_ rubbing…at least, not from guys…"

Vaughn let out a short bark of laughter and pushed away from the wall, heading down the hallway toward the ICU. "Anyway, you asked me earlier why I was in such a hurry… Eric, I realized tonight that I may have made the stupidest mistake of my life, and I'm in a hurry to correct it."

"And that is…" Weiss prompted.

"I have never told Sydney that I love her. I mean, I've never actually _said_ the words. And after what happened tonight, I'm afraid. What if I never get to tell her? What if she never knows?"

Apparently this wasn't what Eric was expecting to hear, because his jaw dropped. "Dude, she gave you a _drawer_ and you can't even cough up the 'Big Three'? That is _so_ not cool."

"Well, I wanted the first time I said it to be special," Vaughn defended. "Sydney's has had so much crap in her life; I wanted this moment to be something to remember. I had planned on telling her this weekend while we were away…"

"You were going away?" Eric asked, confused. "To where?"

"We were going to Santa Barbara for the weekend. We weren't going to tell anyone; we were just going to go…actually have a weekend off instead of getting paged to come in about fifteen times. We were going to walk the beach, I was going to take her to La Super-Rica…"

"Tell her you loved her and spend the rest of the weekend in your room, right?" Weiss finished for him with a knowing smile.

Vaughn gave him a dirty look. "Not _quite_ the scenario I had in mind…" He trailed off for a moment before continuing, "But after tonight, I realize how stupid I was being. It's more important that Sydney know how I feel. I shouldn't have waited; I should have told her weeks ago…but I was afraid it was too soon. Eric, what if I waited too long? What if I never get the chance?"

Eric Weiss sobered. "Mike…you'll get the chance. You'll see; Sydney's a real fighter. She's strong. She'll pull through." Off Michael's dubious look he insisted, "Don't you think she'd want to come back to you? Of _course_ she does. I mean, 'cause even if you haven't said the words…she probably already knows. Women are like that."

"That doesn't excuse the fact I haven't done it. I'm going to fix that right now. I'm going to sit by her bedside and tell her the moment she wakes up," Vaughn vowed.

Eric slapped Vaughn on the back. "Good for you. That's the spirit."

They entered through the swinging doors into the ICU and were promptly greeted by the head nurse. "Sorry," she said, "visits from immediate family only."

Vaughn looked like he was about to blow a gasket, but Eric reached into his pocket and pulled out his ID. "I'm Special Agent Weiss, and this is Special Agent Vaughn. We're here to report to Senior Agent Bristow."

The nurse's visage immediately changed. "Oh, yes. Right this way." She walked them to the far end of the unit and then turned a corner. There was a small hallway and three more rooms. Two plain-clothes policemen guarded the entrance to this section. After showing his ID again, Weiss and Vaughn were admitted to the ward.

As they walked the last few paces to Sydney's room, both of them heard Jack Bristow's voice as it coldly resonated in the small enclosure. "…This conversation is finished," and then a short beep, indicating he had indeed hung up on whomever he'd be talking to. Through the window, Weiss and Vaughn could see Jack's jaw was clenched so hard, the vein in his temple throbbed. "See what I mean?" Weiss whispered to Vaughn.

Vaughn nodded wordlessly, and then cleared his throat loudly to make their presence known.

Jack took a split second to carefully arrange his features before turning to face the two younger agents. He saw Weiss first. "Status?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"Still in surgery, sir, but the doctors are optimistic about recovery," Weiss replied.

Jack nodded, almost distractedly. "Fine. Thank you." Then he noticed Michael. "Vaughn," he greeted.

"Jack," Vaughn responded in kind. Then Vaughn looked past Jack to the bed where Sydney lay. Suddenly she seemed so small, fragile, and helpless. Tears sprung to his eyes, seeing her this way: IVs, heart monitor, breathing tube, bandages. He closed his eyes against the sight and placed a bandaged hand over his nose and mouth in shock.

Eric sensed the enormous amount of pressure and emotion suddenly filling the air and decided it was time for him to leave. "I'll…be down the hall if anyone needs me." His response was unheard by both men.

"Any change?" Vaughn asked Jack at last.

"None."

Vaughn moved farther into the room, crossing to the only chair, which was next to Sydney's bed and placing his bag of personal items on the floor next to it.

"What are you doing!?" Jack demanded, as Vaughn was about to sit down.

Vaughn's expression was just as determined. "I'm going to sit. I plan on being here when she wakes up."

"You can't," was Jack's clipped response.

Vaughn's eyes narrowed and he closed the gap between them. "I'm staying."

"No, Mr. Vaughn…you aren't."

Fire glowed in the depths of Vaughn's green eyes as he set his jaw and felt his hands clench into fists. There was not a chance that he was going to let Jack deny him this. "And who is going to stop me?" he growled, getting right up in Jack's face.

Jack did not flinch. He didn't even twitch a muscle. "Duty, I'm afraid," answered calmly.

This answer surprised Vaughn. "What?"

"I've just received intel that suggests Sydney's life may be in additional danger…from the Rambaldi device: Il Dire. While the information derived from a questionable source, we cannot afford to take chances. We need to locate Sloane and the device before he can use it. I will need you to spearhead the team to locate Il Dire."

"But…"

Jack cut Vaughn off. "I've learned from experience, Mr. Vaughn, that doing something proactive is much better than being reactive. Sitting by Sydney's bedside will do nothing to change her current status. However, apprehending Sloane and the device _will_."

For a long moment, the two men silently stared one another down. As before, some silent understanding passed between them, and once again, Vaughn nodded his reluctant acquiescence.

"You need to get home and try to get some rest. I'll need you rested and sharp for the morning," Jack explained. He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a clear plastic Ziploc bag. It contained Vaughn's cell phone and car keys. "I found these after you left. I had your car brought to the hospital. It's waiting out in the emergency room parking area."

Vaughn accepted the bag from Jack. "Thanks. I'd like a few moments with Sydney alone."

Jack nodded solemnly. He understood all that the younger agent was going through; all that he was giving up and accepting in order to protect his daughter. Giving him the moments alone he requested was the least he could do in return. "I'll wait outside. Let me know when you're finished."


	13. Chapter 13

In The Air Tonight, Part 13

- - -

Michael Vaughn watched the stoic, unreadable Jack Bristow as he turned on his heel and marched from the room and out of sight. While others might find him as mystifying as the Sphinx, Michael had deciphered at least one part of the man's psyche: In his own weird way, Jack loved Sydney and would do literally _anything_ to protect her from harm.

At times, his love had taken the bizarre forms of framing another agent from SD-6 to conceal her deception (who was then executed), killing another CIA agent at point blank range (granted, he was a traitor and a weasel), exposing his daughter to Project Christmas, and wiring a building in Madagascar with explosives to "prove" the traitorous nature of (read: frame) Irina Derevko. In Jack's mind, Vaughn realized, when it came to Sydney, _any_ means were justified if the end result was saving her from harm.

And while Vaughn wasn't about to go around blowing other agents' heads off, he wasn't exactly a choirboy when it came to the subject of Sydney Bristow, either. In the two years he'd known her, he'd infiltrated SD-6 at great personal risk, broken into the Vatican archives, stolen priceless artifacts from a museum, broken her out of FBI custody at gunpoint, aided and abetted a fugitive, and accompanied her on many missions not sanctioned by the CIA, and some that were against their direct orders…all so he could ensure Sydney's safety. He'd even gone so far as to personally face his father's murderer, just so Sydney wouldn't have to.

Vaughn couldn't completely suppress a shudder when he thought of his first face-to-face meeting with Irina Derevko. Out of necessity, over the last year Vaughn had developed a thick skin and a poker face to match for his dealings with the woman who was only genetically Sydney's mother; but that first time…he'd been unprepared. He hadn't been ready to handle the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him at the sight of her: the slow, catlike way that she walked; the sultry, serpentine timbre of her voice; her uncanny ability to worm under his defenses to lay bare his worst fears. He still had nightmares about her blasé parting shot at the end of that first encounter, "You look just like him…"

He'd wished he'd been able to ask her about the details of his father's death: why she'd done it, what information did he have that she needed, and most importantly… how much had he suffered before she killed him? But he would never give Irina the satisfaction of knowing how badly he wanted to know the truth. Irina Derevko was a woman (loosely defined) who thrived from discerning people's deepest, most secret insecurities and using that knowledge to her advantage.

While Irina Derevko's methods and ability to outwit her enemies were truly astounding, usually it was quite clear that Irina only did what would best benefit herself…with one puzzling exception: her mercurial attitude toward her only child.

She'd shot Sydney in the shoulder in Taipei, but then killed her own associate in order to save Sydney in Barcelona. She'd stolen and erased the DNA intel on the second genetic double, but then provided the intel to the CIA so as to save Will Tippin's life. She'd sent the CIA on a wild goose chase to Zurich that allowed for the capture of the Dereno heart—as well as Jack Bristow—but then given them reliable intel about Sark's whereabouts in Sweden, allowing for the rescue of Sydney's father. When it came to Sydney, Irina's motives became enigmatic.

Shaking his head to clear the troubling path his thoughts were taking, Vaughn realized suddenly that he was wasting the precious little time he would have with Sydney tonight. Pulling up the burnt orange Naugahyde chair to the edge of Sydney's bedside, he eased himself into it, his eyes never leaving her.

Bathed only in the stark white lighting filtering through the window from the hallway, Sydney appeared so white, small and fragile…like a china doll. Vaughn tried to remind himself of all the times Sydney had proven to be much tougher than she appeared, but still he had to blink back tears. This evening was all so…surreal. It couldn't be true…how could it be true? But it was. His precious Sydney, whom only hours before had been, happy, lively, and vivacious, now fought for her life in a sparse, clinical hospital room.

With a bittersweet smile, Vaughn reached up with his bandaged left hand and softly brushed a lock of hair off Sydney's forehead, tucking it safely behind her ear as she'd done so many times before. Then he trailed his hand down her arm until he cradled her limp hand is his. Slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth across the soft skin on the back of her hand, he lifted their intertwined hands to his mouth and whispered kisses on her soft skin and then gently lowered them back to the bed.

"Sydney…" Michael began, but had to stop and clear his voice. His throat was so clogged with emotion he could barely speak. "Sydney… I don't know if you can hear me. I hope to God you can… Because I need to tell you something—something important." Vaughn paused, but then forced himself to continue.

"I was going to tell you this weekend…on the beach…or maybe over a taco at La Super-Rica, I don't know." Vaughn ran an impatient hand through his hair, making it stand up on end. "I've felt this way forever, but I wanted my telling you to be special, something to remember. But now I realize that it was stupid of me to wait. I realize that I should have told you a long time ago."

Vaughn paused, trying to blink away more tears, but these wouldn't be held back. "I…love you, Sydney. I think I've loved you since that very first day: neon red hair, swollen jaw and all." A sad smile touched the edges of his mouth at the memory. "At first, I was in awe of your strength, your determination, your ability to persevere. As I got to know you and the bitterness left from losing Danny subsided, I found so many other things to love: your incredibly brilliant mind, your beautiful smile, your gentle, softer side that refused to compartmentalize, your devotion to those you loved."

"I fell for you so hard and so fast, I wasn't even aware it had happened. I tried to fight it. I told myself all sorts of lies to make myself believe it wasn't what I wanted, but that only made me want you more. Even though deep down, I knew I couldn't lie to myself anymore, I told myself for the longest time I couldn't, wouldn't let it show. I would not allow emotion to cloud my judgment when it came to you…because I knew that if the CIA found out, they would remove me from your case. I'd tried that; and it was two weeks of utter hell. I mean, knowing you're out on missions and knowing the dangers you would face was always bad enough, but the _not_ knowing was even worse."

Vaughn swallowed the lump forming in his throat and continued. "When…when you started confiding in me, calling me your 'guardian angel', I felt so incredibly proud to have some place in your life, to be able to help you in some way. I wanted so desperately…you can't know _how_ desperately…to be a _real_ part of your life instead of always hiding in the shadows, unable to even _look_ at you in public."

"I had always hoped, but never believed, that you could eventually see me as something more than your handler, your confidant. That day I first saw you after you had gotten the antidote that saved my life, that was the first time that I knew…knew you felt something for me. Whether you know it or not, it was that moment that gave me the strength to tell you how I felt. When you admitted you felt the same…I was in heaven…and hell. I felt so damned guilty about being happy because of what had to happen to you in order for us to meet…"

"God, Sydney," he sighed wearily, "we've been through so much. You are such an incredible woman. And I am so incredibly lucky to know you. Yet, I've taken the time I've shared with you for granted; a mistake I will never make again. You are my everything, Sydney," Vaughn whispered fervently. "You are my life. You were the missing piece that I never knew existed until we met. Now, I can never go back… I never want to go back. No matter what lies before us, it'll be all right as long as you're here with me. Please come back to me. Please be all right… I want to have the chance to say this all over again."

Looking down at their joined hands, he sighed. "I would like nothing more than to sit here for the hours, days, or weeks it might take for you to come back. I would like nothing more than to be the very first thing you see when you awaken…but I can't. As much as I loathe it, I know that your father is right. I can't just sit here and ignore the world when that bastard Sloane is out there somewhere. Your father believes the new device might hurt you in some way. I am going to try to prevent that."

"But know this…" Vaughn shook Sydney's hand slightly with emphasis, "as long as I live and breathe, I will love you and do everything in my power to protect you. I know that, were you awake, you probably wouldn't believe me. That's all right. I pray that I will have the rest of our lives to prove it to you."

Vaughn stood, and bending over her, placed a soft kiss on Sydney's forehead and then brushed her lips with his own. Straightening up, he wiped away the wetness from his cheeks. Suddenly, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Instantly he knew why. Without even turning around, he said, "All right, Jack… I know you can hear me… You can come in now."


	14. Chapter 14

In The Air Tonight, Part 14

- - -

Jack Bristow materialized in the doorway, not even an ounce of remorse showing on his otherwise blank face.

Turning to face him, Vaughn said drolly, "Normally, time alone with someone means actually being _alone_ with that person."

Jack's expression showed no response to the sarcasm. "Call it…father's prerogative," he replied calmly.

It was times like this that made Vaughn want to land a punch right in the middle of Jack Bristow's smug face. But, since he didn't have a death wish, he didn't. Besides, his knuckles were still sore from his clash with the wall a few minutes ago. "This isn't high school, Jack. You didn't just catch me sneaking in a window with a keg. Last I checked, we were both adults, here."

"I have the right to know what your intentions are regarding my daughter," Jack responded coolly.

"…seeing that I'm now f***ing her," Vaughn mocked, voicing the unspoken accusation that hung in the air between them.

A muscle in Jack's jaw twitched violently.

"That's the _real_ issue here, isn't it? You've seen the tape…_All_ of it…right?"

Jack's voice revealed nothing. "Of course. It needed to be determined if any classified information was discussed during your moments of…indiscretion."

"I wouldn't exactly consider an 'all-nighter' a simple _indiscretion_…would you?" came Vaughn's sarcasm-laced reply. "I'm sure you didn't need to watch the entire tape to discern that work was the farthest thing from our minds that night, Jack."

Vaughn was trying to get a rise out of the unflappable Jack Bristow, and this time it worked. "That is _precisely_ why it _did_ need checking! Do you think I don't know the effects sexual intercourse has on brain function? Many classified secrets have been revealed in the bedroom."

A sudden thought crossed Vaughn's mind. _He knows this from personal experience…_ Suddenly, it all made sense. Jack was worried about the release of sensitive information because it had happened to _him_; this was one of the techniques Irina must have used during their 'marriage' to get _him_ to talk…

"I'm not the enemy, Jack," Vaughn replied simply.

"No. But, as you've now learned, the enemy can be listening…even watching," Jack needled.

"I think that's been well established…especially in the last few minutes," Vaughn retorted. "I'm sure that I don't need to tell you this, since you just spent the last ten minutes eavesdropping, but this isn't some game for me. I'm not just 'screwing' your daughter for a 'good time'."

This earned Vaughn a death look from Jack, but he was too angry to be affected. "I think we've worked together long enough for you to know what my character is made of…to know that I would never treat Sydney that way. However, it doesn't really matter to me _what_ you think. I am not asking for, nor do I _need_ your permission to have a relationship of any sort with Sydney. She and I are both consenting adults, and we've made our decision. It's no longer your concern."

Jack stalked up until he was an inch from Vaughn's face. Fire flashing in his eyes, Jack spit out, "_Everything_ about Sydney is my _concern_."

Vaughn did not flinch. He met Jack's eyes defiantly. "I meant what I said, Jack. I intend to be around for a long time. So you'd better get used to the idea." Vaughn paused, and then finished simply, "I love her."

Jack stared into the younger man's face for a long moment and then took a step back. "I know. Which is why I didn't kill you after that tape…yet."

"Gee, that's comforting," Vaughn rejoined, unafraid. "You treat all of Sydney's boyfriends this way?"

"Yes." The one word spoke volumes.

Vaughn let out a sigh, and then turned to look at Sydney for a long moment.

Jack clapped a hand on Vaughn's shoulder. "You should go. Kendall will expect you by 8 a.m."

Vaughn desperately didn't want to leave. Although he understood why he needed to, he also needed to know that Sydney would be all right. "But…"

"Go," Jack urged. "I will call you the moment anything changes."

After what seemed like an eternity, Vaughn reluctantly nodded. He stepped forward and placed a soft kiss on Sydney's cheek. "Your father will watch over you," he whispered to her. "I love you and I'll see you soon."

Bending over and picking up his bags, he opened the Ziploc and pulled out his car keys, dumping the cell phone into the bag with his clothing. He slung the plastic bag over his shoulder and walked out of the room, only to practically run over Weiss.

"Hey, where you going, man?" Weiss asked.

"Home," Vaughn replied flatly. "I have to work tomorrow."

"What!?" Eric gasped. "That bastard Kendall is making you come in tomorrow?"

"No. Jack is."

Eric huffed, "Well if it ain't one bastard, it's another. What's _his_ problem?"

_Where would you like me to start?_ Michael thought, but didn't say. "Jack told me he received intel that indicated Sydney could still be in danger…from the Rambaldi device."

"Sh*t. Really?" asked Weiss.

"Yeah," Vaughn confirmed. "Jack wants me to spearhead the task force to find Sloane and the device before he can activate it."

"Man, that's like a needle-in-a-haystack job. If Jack wants it done, why doesn't _he_ do it?"

"Because she's his daughter and he wants to be with her," Vaughn replied. "I can understand that…respect it, even. And if he can't be in the field, I guess he wanted someone out there who he knew would follow every possible lead…someone who had as personal a stake in the outcome as he did."

"Makes sense… If you're Jack Bristow," Eric smirked. Changing the subject, he asked, "How's Sydney? Did you tell her?"

"She's unconscious. But yes, I did tell her."

"Feel better?" Weiss asked.

"Not really. I'll feel better when she's awake and I know she's out of immediate danger. When I can tell her again and she will actually hear me," Vaughn explained.

Eric nodded in understanding. "You need a ride home?"

"No. Jack had the forethought to collect my keys from Sydney's house and had my car brought here. But thanks anyway."

"You wanna go out then? Go get totally sh*t-faced somewhere? It'll take your mind off things for a while…" Eric offered.

Vaughn shook his head. He needed to be alert in case something happened with Sydney. He patted his friend on the back. "No, thanks. I need to be in to work at 8 am. It's hard enough dealing with Kendall… let alone dealing with him while nursing a hangover…"

Eric snorted. "No need to tell me _that_, man… Been there, done that one too many times. No thanks!"

Despite himself, Vaughn let out a short cackle. "Now why does that not surprise me?"

They had reached the elevator. Vaughn pushed the down button and waited for Eric's reply. "Maybe because you know me too well?"

"Could be," said Vaughn. The bell pinged and then the elevator doors slid open. Vaughn stepped inside and turned to face Weiss.

Weiss' face turned serious. "Mike, listen…You need anything, anything at all, you call me, okay?"

"Okay, thanks. 'Night."

"G'night, Mike." And with that, the elevator doors slid shut, whisking Michael Vaughn out of sight.


	15. Chapter 15

In The Air Tonight, Part 15

- - -

Michael Vaughn felt his spirits lower along with the elevator as it carried him further and further away from Sydney. _How did I ever let Jack talk me into leaving?_ he asked himself, frustrated. But before he could ponder it much further, the doors to the elevator opened to yield the main hospital lobby.

Ignoring stares of passersby who obviously wondered why someone who potentially worked at the hospital was carrying around a bag of bloody clothes, he crossed the lobby and shoved open the front doors. The night air was still cool and the stars above still shone brightly, but Vaughn could no longer find peace in them as he had hours ago. Everything in his life had changed…or so it seemed.

The ache from the wound in his leg was back in full force, so he limped slightly as he rounded the back of the building to reach the Emergency Room parking lot. As his black sedan came into view, he hit the open trunk latch button and watched dispassionately as the hatch popped open. A fresh pang of anguish stabbed his heart when he saw his duffel still sitting there, packed and ready for his now-forgotten trip to Santa Barbara. Forcing himself to look away, he dumped the plastic bag into the trunk and slammed the hatch closed with quite a bit more force than was necessary.

Unlocking the door, yanking it open and dropping himself despairingly onto the seat, he slouched over, wearily leaning his head into his hands. Deep gulping breaths tore from his chest as, for the first time that evening, the emotions overwhelmed him. Over and over, his mind mercilessly replayed the graphic images: Will's bloody body in the bathtub; the streaks of blood on the floor, the walls, the kitchen countertop; Sydney…

_Oh, God…Sydney…_ His brain repeated the scene of his finding her body like it was caught in an unending loop. Vaughn's body shook from the anguish that he fought to keep inside. _I will not cry,_ he told himself. _I won't do it… I won't…_

His stomach lurched violently and he sank onto his knees on the ground in front of the open car door, bracing both hands against the warm, black pavement as he vomited, the urge coming over and over again in waves until it dwindled into weak dry heaves. Finally, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt, Vaughn feebly pushed himself backward into an awkward sitting position on the ground, leaning against the car for support. He felt the sting of tears welling behind his eyelids, but he refused to let them fall. He reached up and pinched his nose hard at the junction between his eyes until the impulse subsided.

Not sure whether he had the energy to stand, Vaughn dragged himself into the car, pulling the door shut behind him. After a couple of deep breaths, he shoved himself upright, blinking a couple of times to bring his sight into focus. As he stuck his car key into the ignition and turned, putting his car into reverse, Vaughn put his mind into neutral. He refused to think. He needed to concentrate on three things: forcing his heart to continue beating, remembering to take a breath every so often, and keeping the damned car between the yellow lines.

- - -

How he got himself home, Vaughn couldn't be sure. It was all an anesthetized blur. But he didn't care. If there was no memory, no emotion, then there was no pain. Stumbling out of the car, Vaughn popped the trunk with his key ring. _Don't think,_ he ordered himself. _Don't think; don't feel; don't remember…_ as he robotically grabbed both bags from the trunk and slammed the hatch shut with his elbow. Dragging each foot as though a lead weight were attached, his internal monologue continued, _Don't look down…the bags, they're really not there. They don't exist. The pain doesn't exist… You can do this… Just three more steps…Come on…_

Vaughn shoved his house key into the lock, turned it and leaned against the door, allowing his body weight to push the door open. He trudged inside, kicking the door closed with a slam. His parcels slid unheeded from lifeless fingers. Across the darkened room, a light blinked three times, then stopped, then blinked again: the light from his answering machine. Shoving a shoe off each foot as he walked, he marched stiffly toward the miniscule red beacon.

He pushed the button beside the light, bringing the machine to life. _Don't think…_ The first message was from an acquaintance, Tyler, who played on his pick-up hockey team, telling him that the practice had been cancelled for tomorrow. He pressed 'erase'. _Don't feel…_ The second message was from his mother, reminding him of his promise to stop by on Thursday for dinner. He pressed erase again. _Don't remember…_ The third message began to play…_No, no, I can't!…Don't feel! Don't feel it…it's not real!_

His gray world suddenly exploded into colors, each one stinging his body like thousands of poisoned needles. The sudden pain was blinding, intense. "Mr. Vaughn," a polite female voice intoned, "this is the Cheshire Cat Inn… Just checking to see if you are still planning on keeping your reservation for this evening. Please return this call at your earliest convenience… (805) 569-1610. Thank you."

Vaughn's head swam and his knees turned to jelly. He gripped the edge of the table for support, his knuckles whitening from the effort to remain upright. For several moments, he stood in emotional limbo. _I should call,_ he thought, _to let them know we're not coming…_ but no matter how much he willed it, his arm would not move. Vaughn could not get his hand to pick up the telephone and punch the numbers, because somehow doing it would make tonight real. _It's not real!_ his mind screamed. _Don't make it real!_ He covered his ears with his hands, as if doing so could drown out the sound of his own thoughts. Finally, to end the torment inside his head, he grabbed the answering machine, ripped it forcefully from the wall, and heaved it across the room, hearing it shatter upon impact with the wall and drop to the floor with a satisfying thud.

_I will not cry…I will not feel…_ his desperate mind whispered. _There is no pain…it does not exist._ Like an automaton, he walked across the dark apartment toward his bathroom, shedding articles of clothing as he went, creating a trail of discarded garments.

He did not turn on the light; it would hurt too much. _Hide…hide the pain…let the darkness swallow it up…let it swallow __**you**__ up…_ Shoving aside the shower curtain, he turned the water on blistering hot. Kicking off his boxer shorts, he stepped under the stream, hissing at the sensation assailing his skin. The water hurt, but it was a healing hurt, a cathartic hurt. _Yes, let the pain seep out of you, let it drip to the ground, flow down the drain…._

**The drain. The water. The blood.** It all came back with a crushing blow, forcing all the air out of Vaughn's lungs as if someone had gut-punched him. His mind a tumbling maelstrom of emotion out of control, the anger surfaced first. "No!" the sound tore from his throat, punctuated by the slamming of the side of his fist on the shower wall. "No!" Pound. "No!" Pound. "NO!" Pound. "NO!" Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound.

Vaughn's screams got louder and louder, and his banging became more and more violent until; finally, he collapsed against the shower wall, the sorrow overtaking him. A deep, guttural cry burst into the wet blackness. Then a great keening wail escaped his lips and echoed in the small room, melting into gasping sobs as his body slid bonelessly down the shower tile to the tub floor. Curled up in fetal position under the unmerciful water stream, Michael Vaughn wept hysterically, grasping his knees, rhythmically rocking to and fro, until his throat was hoarse and he had no tears left to cry.

His sanity slowly returning, Michael realized the water pounding his head and shoulders had long since turned cold and that his shivers were not just from spent emotion. Feeling blindly along the wall, he finally found the water tap and shut it off. It took several long, deep breaths before he could push himself to a stand and carefully climb out of the porcelain tub. Grabbing his towel from the towel rack, he vigorously dried off his body, trying to restore warmth and circulation. Then, leaning over, he tossed the terrycloth over his head and scrubbed the water out of his hair, making his hair stand up on end. At last, he stood, placing the towel back on the holder and grabbing his robe from a hook on the back of the door, shrugging it over his shoulders and tying it at the waist.

He padded barefoot from the bathroom to his bedroom, pausing to glance at the time on his bedside clock; **1:34 am** its green face glowed. Sighing, Vaughn looked down at his hand, just noticing that it was still bandaged and that the bandage was soaked. Removing it deftly, he unceremoniously dumped it into the wastebasket next to his desk, the bandage on his thigh soon following. Making a mental note to replace the bandages in the morning, he walked over to the window and pulled up the shade, allowing moonlight to stream through the glass while he gazed out into the night.

Despite his breakdown—or quite possibly because of it—Vaughn felt somewhat better. He finally felt as if his mind was functioning properly again. He no longer felt such sharp, agonizing pain, nor did he feel the robotic numbness that had threatened to envelop him. A determination set his mouth in a grim line. He needed to be able to concentrate, to focus, if he was going to be able to save Sydney from possibly a worse fate. That, and he needed some sleep.

Setting his alarm to go off at 6:15, Michael untied the robe, letting it slip down his arms and puddle at his feet. For a moment he stood, considering. Normally he wore boxer shorts to bed…but tonight he was just too emotionally drained and physically exhausted to care. He threw aside the blankets and slipped his naked body between the cool, cotton sheets.

He sighed at the pleasant sensation and rolled over onto his stomach, bunching a pillow up under his head. As tired as he was, Michael couldn't seem to get comfortable. He rolled onto his back and placed his hands behind his head, kicking one leg out of the sheets to keep from getting hot.

Instead of getting more relaxed, Michael was feeling tenser by the moment. He had the distinct feeling he was being watched. _That's ridiculous, Mike,_ he told himself. _It's just your mind on overload…_ But the feeling wouldn't subside. The hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle. A cold sliver of fear pressed upon his psyche, forcing him at last to sit up and open his eyes, anxiously scanning the dark corners of his bedroom for anything amiss.

Vaughn almost missed it, the slight movement near his closet. His eyes trained to the spot, adjusting slowly to the darkness. Out of the shadows, Michael watched in horror as a specter rose, using a voice straight from his worst nightmares.

"Good evening, Mr. Vaughn."


	16. Chapter 16

In The Air Tonight, Part 16

- - -

Breaking out in a cold sweat, Michael Vaughn thought, _This is a nightmare…_ before he mentally amended, _No, this is __**worse**__ than any nightmare I've ever had…_ Vaughn was pretty sure he'd remember a dream that involved being caught naked in his bed by the enemy.

"What? You have nothing to say to me?" asked the voice. "You've never been at a loss for words with me before…" The speaker slunk forward, face still in shadow. However, glimmering in the shaft of moonlight was a 9mm Luger pistol with an attached silencer, pointed straight at him.

Despite being held at gunpoint, Vaughn was having trouble keeping his temper in check. "That's most likely because I've never been ambushed by you in my bedroom, Irina," Vaughn snapped.

Stepping closer so the moon side-lit her lithe frame, the eyes of his father's killer sparkled with humor. "A pity for you, certainly…" Irina drawled, sounding amused. She spent several moments leisurely perusing his body from head to toe. Vaughn's back stiffened and his fists clenched at his sides under her purposefully insulting scrutiny. His reaction only appeared to amuse Irina Derevko further. "But also for me, perhaps? It's easy to see what my daughter would find attractive about you…" she baited.

Vaughn fought the urge to pull the blankets up to properly cover himself. Although it repulsed him to be so exposed in front of Irina, he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing the depth of discomfort she had caused in him. Instead, he raised his chin slightly and glared menacingly at her, hatred blazing in his eyes. He said coldly, in clipped tones, "Is there is some pressing reason to grace me with your presence? One more important than trading sexual innuendos about my…assets, I presume. If this were meant to be an assassination, you would have killed me by now. So that really only leaves one option—obviously, you want something from me. What do you want?"

Irina was amazed at how much this young man sounded like Jack Bristow when he did that. In fact, he reminded her a great deal of the idealistic young CIA agent she'd once married. _Like mother, like daughter,_ she thought to herself. Her appearance suddenly solemn, she replied, "I want to know how my daughter is. Is she still alive?"

"Why the hell should you care?" Vaughn spit back. "You can use the façade of the loving mother with Sydney, but not with me. You and I both know she's not a daughter to you. She's nothing more to you than a pawn in whatever grand scheme you're planning."

A bullet discharged from the pistol, whistling past Vaughn's leg by a fraction of an inch, lodging itself deep into his mattress. "Don't you **ever** talk about my love for Sydney that way again," Irina seethed. "It was no accident that I missed, Mr. Vaughn. Another comment like that and I guarantee that the next one will be in your chest. Now, answer my question."

Vaughn gritted his teeth, but he complied with Irina's demand. "Sydney is still alive, although she was badly injured in her struggle with the double. The doctors aren't yet sure if she'll pull through."

Irina bit her lip. Even to Vaughn, she seemed disturbed by the news. Finally, she said, as much to herself as to Vaughn, "I was not the one that planted the double. That was something orchestrated by Sark and Sloane. When I discovered how dangerous it was becoming for Sydney…I knew I had to do something."

"You had to do what?" Vaughn asked, incredulous. "Steal the information that Sydney needed to save Will Tippin? If you truly wanted to help her, why not simply tell her the identity of the double?"

Irina's eyes narrowed dangerously and then she sighed impatiently. "It's not that simple, Mr. Vaughn, nor are things always what they seem. While I wanted to help Sydney, in order to maintain my cover, I had to make it _appear_ as if I were helping Sloane. The plan was to retrieve the intel before the CIA so that I could use the DNA strand as a tool to force Sydney to exchange something we needed in return: a keycard to the secret NSA lab where the Dereno heart was being kept."

Vaughn's jaw clenched in anger at the thought of Irina Derevko using Sydney in this way, but dared not open his mouth.

Off Vaughn's look, Irina explained, "But my _true_ purpose was to use the encounter to give Sydney the intel on where to find Sloane's artifact warehouse."

"Intel that turned out to be false; intel that facilitated the theft of the Dereno heart and the abduction of Jack Bristow. It appeared your plan succeeded after all," Vaughn concluded coldly.

"No! That was not part of the plan!" Irina denied. "Somehow—I don't know how—Sloane anticipated my betrayal and had the artifacts moved to another location. Mexico City, as it turned out."

"It's no secret that you've thwarted the Rambaldi investigation at every turn. You masterminded the theft of all the Rambaldi artifacts being held by the U.S. Government. You used the emotional attachments of your own husband and daughter to secure your freedom from CIA custody and joined with their enemy. Now, suddenly you want to us to confiscate the very items you stole? Why do I find that hard to believe?" Vaughn queried suspiciously.

"The Prophecy," Irina answered, as if the two words explained everything.

Vaughn's eyes widened in surprise, but decided to feign innocence. "What are you talking about?"

Irina Derevko was not fooled. "You know exactly what I speak of, Mr. Vaughn. You were one of the first people to view the prophecy revealed on Page 47 of the Rambaldi manuscript. 'This woman here depicted will possess unseen marks, signs that she will be the one to bring forth my work; bind them with fury, a burning anger. Unless prevented, at vulgar cost this woman will render the greatest power unto utter desolation.'" Irina quoted.

"Yes." There was no point in denying it, Vaughn reasoned, since Haladki knew all about Page 47 and had worked for Derevko before his untimely demise at the hands of Jack Bristow.

"This prophecy is not about me, Mr. Vaughn. It is about Sydney."

"No," Vaughn denied. "It's not. Sydney's been to Mount Sebacio. The prophecy said…"

Irina cut him off. "…It said 'This woman without pretense, will have had her effect, never having seen the beauty of my sky behind Mount Sebacio. Perhaps a single glance would have quelled her fire.'"

"Yes."

Irina continued, "What you don't know, Mr. Vaughn, is that the phrase 'the beauty of my sky' refers to a _singular_ event Milo Rambaldi witnessed, not the sky in general."

"What!?" Vaughn said, astounded. "What event?"

"You're aware, I presume, that one of Rambaldi's many passions was the study of the heavenly bodies that make up our skies?"

Vaughn nodded.

"In 1530, there was the concurrence of a total solar eclipse over Italy with the passing of Haley's comet. Rambaldi wrote in other, lesser-known journals about the incredible ability to see the comet in the middle of the day while the earth eclipsed the sun. _That_ is what 'the beauty of my sky' means," Irina explained.

A knot of foreboding grew in Vaughn's stomach.

Irina went on, "So unless Sydney happened to witness a comet in the daytime during a solar eclipse while on Mount Sebacio, her trip to Italy served no purpose other than to get the American authorities to let her go."

Many moments passed between them in silence.

"How do I know what you've just told me is true?" Vaughn questioned at last, skepticism lacing his voice.

"You don't," Irina replied matter-of-factly. "However, even you must be able to admit that I am considered an expert in the works of Rambaldi."

After a moment, Vaughn grudgingly nodded.

"Then you should understand that I would be in a better position to properly translate Rambaldi's prophesy than you."

Anger flashed across Michael Vaughn's features. Stubbornly he denied, "Sydney Bristow is _not_ a traitor."

"I am not suggesting that she is, Mr. Vaughn," Irina replied calmly, her 9mm still pointed at his chest to guard against any sudden moves. "My daughter would never _willingly_ assist in the destruction of the world as we know it. We both know that. However, as I have recently discovered, she may have no choice."


	17. Chapter 17

In The Air Tonight, Part 17

- - -

For one of the few times since he'd joined the CIA, Michael Vaughn was truly frightened…all the way down to the marrow in his bones. There was no explicable reason for this fear; yet he couldn't deny the irrational panic threatening to overwhelm him. Not wanting to know the answer, but knowing he had to ask the question, Vaughn swallowed hard and then asked, "What do you mean she may have no choice?"

"That is rather a long story, Mr. Vaughn," Irina answered soberly. "Are you prepared to listen to the answer?"

Whatever the terrible news was, it didn't appear that Irina meant to keep it from him. For some reason, that helped soothe his nerves. _Unless it's all a set up…_ he pondered in response to his line of thought. _Well, there's only one way to find out…_

Vaughn answered her question with a question. "What I want to know is, why me? Why bring this intel to someone who obviously doesn't trust you? Why not entrust your information to someone more likely to believe you?" _Someone like Jack Bristow…_ Vaughn thought.

Vaughn might as well have said his last thought aloud. "I tried to talk to Jack, to explain. He wouldn't listen. He's too stubborn for his own good sometimes."

"That still doesn't answer why you chose me. There are several other Task Force members whose identities I'm sure you are aware of; it didn't have to be me. You killed my father, ruined my life. Why the _hell_ do you think I, of all people, would listen to a word you say?"

"There are several reasons," Irina answered. "First, while you may believe I have taken something away from you, Mr. Vaughn, I also gave you something…my daughter."

Irina let that statment sink in before continuing. "Second, I know the lengths to which you would go to save Sydney. You gave Ineni Hassan's family witness protection through the U.S. Government to keep Sydney from being killed. In an extremely risky move, you infiltrated SD-6 during my raid of the facility in order to protect her. You followed her to Taipei to assist in reacquiring Will Tippin, expressly against CIA orders…an op that almost killed you. And you faced me, the woman you assume to be your father's killer, just to keep Sydney from having to when the CIA planned on forcing her to meet with me."

"And third, I believed I could be…successfully persuasive…if we spoke in person. Staring down the barrel of a gun tends to make people more…cooperative; don't you agree, Mr. Vaughn?" Irina asked, caressing the side of the handgun she held.

Vaughn glared at Irina venomously. "F*** you!" he cursed.

"Now, now…there's no need to get hostile simply because I spoke the truth, is there?" A ghost of a smile touched the corners of Irina's mouth. "Or perhaps your foul temper is due to your state of undress? That's a situation easily rectified, if it will improve your mood."

Irina edged around the corner of the bed, closer to where Vaughn sat. "Remove the pillows," she ordered, suddenly all business. "Toss them onto the floor on the far side of the bed."

Before Vaughn even had time to formulate a plan, Irina warned him, "Whatever it is that you're planning to do…_don't_. This is a show of faith, Mr. Vaughn. Abuse my trust and I assure that you _will_ suffer…" Irina pointed the pistol about a foot and a half lower, leaving Vaughn no doubt as to what her new target was. He followed Irina's direction and slowly picked up and tossed the pillows onto the floor on the other side of the room.

"Good. Now slide up so that your back is against the headboard." Slowly, Vaughn complied, pushing himself cautiously backward until his buttocks grazed the edge of the mattress. "Put your arms out and place your palms flat against the wall where I can see them." Vaughn grunted as he awkwardly contorted his arms into the required position, feeling the muscles in his shoulders stretch uncomfortably.

Irina, keeping her eyes and the weapon trained on him, plucked Vaughn's robe from the floor with catlike grace and speed. Stepping back to the end of the bed, she thoroughly searched the item, checking for anything in the pockets or hidden within the fabric that could possibly be used as a weapon. Finally, satisfied, Irina tossed the terrycloth robe at him, landing it in his lap. "Go ahead and put it on…but no sudden moves," she warned.

Gingerly, Vaughn got onto his knees and wrapped the robe around his body, slipping his arms into the sleeves and tying the belt at the waist. Arranging the terrycloth to cover himself, he sat back down, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. "Now what?" he asked grimly.

Irina reached into a back pocket and tossed a set of handcuffs at him. "Attach your left wrist to the bedpost."

Michael Vaughn liked this situation less and less by the moment. Chaining himself to his own bed in the company of Irina Derevko was, in his opinion, more humiliating than being forced to sit naked in front of her.

Vaughn's glower of defiance gave Irina her answer. "Mr. Vaughn," she told him calmly, "you will either comply with my request, or else I will not give you the information you need to save Sydney."

Irate, Vaughn stared at Irina for a long, tense, moment. Irina stared back serenely, secure in the knowledge that he would eventually back down. To his self-disgust, Vaughn did, lowering his eyes and huffing while he attached a handcuff to his left wrist and then attached the other side to the bedpost.

"That's better," Irina said, pulling up Vaughn's desk chair to the end of the bed and sitting down. "Now I can get comfortable." This earned Irina yet another foul look from Vaughn. Irina chose to ignore it.

"As you know, about six weeks ago, Emily Sloane discovered the truth about Arvin's plans to assemble Rambaldi's device. Apparently unbeknownst to her, Sloane approached me with an offer: he wanted to sell me his entire Rambaldi collection, amassed over a 30-year timeframe. He was willing to give up his quest solely to retain the love of his wife. I was in Tuscany at the time of the CIA raid in order to finalize our agreement and arrange for the transport of his collection."

Vaughn was shocked by the news that Arvin Sloane had actually planned on leaving the world of organized crime because of his love for his wife. To him, Sloane had always appeared heartless and ruthless; it was hard to imagine him feeling real love for anyone beside himself. But apparently this was exactly what Irina was telling him.

"After losing Emily during the raid in Tuscany, Sloane became despondent. Even after exacting his revenge on Agent Dixon by ordering the assassination of his wife, he became increasingly morose and disconnected. About three weeks ago, he left the compound in Zurich suddenly, informing Sark to carry on the quest without him, as he may never return."

Again, Vaughn was surprised. Sloane went into hiding?

"It was during the time of Arvin's disappearance that I was able to thoroughly study the artifacts stolen from the NSA archives. During the study of the complete Rambaldi manuscript, I discovered a terrible truth; one worse than I had feared."

"What 'terrible truth'?" Vaughn asked.

Irina continued on as if she hadn't even heard his question. "For many years, I had believed that the Prophecy…"

"What do you mean, 'for many years'? Page 47 was only deciphered last year."

"I have known for many years about the Prophesy woman, long before Page 47 revealed her description. There are many mentions of her sprinkled throughout Rambaldi's writings. I truly believed for many years that the Prophecy referred to me. I was obsessed with Rambaldi; obsessed with discovering the higher meaning of his studies. It made sense that I would be the woman to bring forth his works."

"But, after seeing Sydney in Taipei, realizing how much more she looked like the Prophesy woman from Page 47 than I, I began to wonder. I pored over the information given on Page 47 over and over, trying to make sense of my hunch. After entering CIA custody and spending more time with Sydney, the true meaning of Rambaldi's words came to me. I understood all that was at stake. It was then that I decided that, at all costs, I needed to help her. I needed to save her from her fate."

"While my original purpose remained, that of obtaining the intel on where to find the Rambaldi artifacts, a new purpose formed. I knew that somehow, Sydney needed to be convinced to leave this life, to get away from the CIA, SD-6, and especially, to get away from Arvin Sloane. Everything I did while in custody became a machination to keep Sydney from fulfilling the Prophesy."

Irina was silent for a long moment. When she continued, her voice, normally cool and in control, was tinged with frustration and regret.

"When you came to me after contracting the virus, I helped you. I gave Sydney the information she needed in order to procure the serum to cure you. What you don't know is that I had a very specific reason for doing this."

"I did not help you because I felt indebted to you after saving my life after Jack tried to frame me, nor did I help you because of your promise to divulge your feelings for Sydney to me if I did…. I helped you because I knew, I _knew_ that my daughter was in love with you. I knew that my plan would soon bring SD-6 to an end and that then she would be free…free from Sloane; free from the rules and regulations imposed by the CIA; free to follow her heart and create a new life with you. I had hoped that, given the opportunity to create a normal life for herself outside of this world, she would jump at the chance."

This news stunned Michael Vaughn. Irina had _wanted_ them to be together?

"You see, Mr. Vaughn, if Sydney had decided to leave the CIA, decided to move on with her life, then she would never fulfill the Prophecy. I knew her current path was bringing her closer and closer to that fate forecast by Rambaldi 500 years ago. But…even with everything I tried to do, I could not sway her from this path. She would not allow herself move on, not let herself be happy without first avenging the wrongs done to her by Sloane."

"I don't understand how any of what you've told me proves Sydney's tie to the Prophecy," Vaughn said.

"Throughout the manuscript are encoded strands of DNA, much like the ones found in the manuscript of Rambaldi's study of the human heart. When the strands are correctly decoded and fused, it reveals the identity of the woman from the Prophesy. The DNA strand belongs to Sydney."

_No!_ Vaughn's mind rebelled. _It can't be!_ "Are you sure?" he asked, but he knew it was true by the look on Irina's face. The Prophecy woman was indeed Sydney Bristow.

Irina suddenly appeared very weary. "Despite my best efforts, all of my attempts to save Sydney have failed. It is happening as Rambaldi foretold; her fate is now sealed. Unless Sloane is found soon, the Prophecy will be fulfilled. Sydney will bring Il Dire to life."


	18. Chapter 18

In The Air Tonight, Part 18

- - -

Michael Vaughn's mind found it hard to function. The woman he loved was firmly entrenched in Milo Rambaldi's most dire prediction. "Why?" he asked finally. "Why try to help her if her fate was sealed?"

"Because nothing is absolute, Mr. Vaughn," Irina answered. "Visionaries can only tell you what has the greatest _possibility_ of happening. Free will can always intervene. So while her most probable path was foretold by Rambaldi, Sydney had the ability to change this."

"So why not simply tell Sydney where she was headed instead of trying to manipulate her?" Vaughn demanded.

"Because," she replied calmly, "if Sydney had known of her future, then any change she made would not have been 'free will'. That would have been her only chance."

"But…" Vaughn persisted.

"Listen!" Irina cut Vaughn off impatiently. "There is no time for debate! Sloane could be days, or even _hours_ from programming Il Dire to activate. You _need_ to understand more about what Il Dire is and how it works if you're going to try to help Sydney."

Michael Vaughn had never seen such a display of emotion from the ice-cool Irina Derevko. It almost made him believe Irina truly had Sydney's best interests at heart…_almost…_

Vaughn nodded.

"Il Dire is a machine comprised of 47 unique Rambaldi artifacts. Each artifact is a whole unto itself. The parts all function as separate entities with their own unique purpose, but when assembled as a part of Il Dire, each part takes on a role in sustaining the whole. Il Dire is a body of harmonious microcosms…"

"…A mimicry of the human body…" Vaughn followed in awe.

"Yes," Irina confirmed. "Rambaldi's tribute to God's ability to create life. However, the complete Rambaldi manuscript explains that even with all 47 pieces, one key ingredient is missing."

"What's that?" Vaughn inquired.

"The breath of life—the impetus to begin existing…in this case, the power of thought. Just as the human body is powered by thought, so too is Il Dire. It needs the power of a human mind to activate it…one _specific_ mind…" Irina trailed off to allow Vaughn to make the connection.

"Sydney's," Vaughn concluded.

"Yes."

"But why would it have to be _Sydney's_ mind? Why not Sloane's? Why not any person's?"

"None of the Rambaldi documents I've read has ever explained why Sydney was chosen," Irina answered, "but I do know why it will only work with her thoughts: Il Dire was designed to activate _only_ when energy from that specific DNA strand is received."

"I still don't understand how Sydney's thoughts could activate Il Dire. Arvin Sloane would be the _last_ person on earth she would help. She loathes him," Vaughn said.

"That is precisely _why_ she will help him," Irina countered, a tinge of sadness lacing her voice.

"I…don't understand…" Vaughn couldn't seem to grasp Irina's meaning.

Sounding more like a college professor than an enemy spy, Irina lectured, "Because thoughts are literally power. While the more in-depth studies in this field are still considered controversial, scientists all agree that the thought processes of the brain have a magnetic field and an electrical impulse. These impulses can be measured to some degree with the use of an electroencephalogram. So, thoughts generate a magnetic field and an electrical charge, therefore thoughts can be considered a form of energy—energy in its most pure state. When you think of thoughts as an energy source, the process makes more sense."

"So you're telling me that a lone, errant thought from Sydney Bristow is enough to activate Il Dire?" Vaughn asked incredulously.

"No, it's not. Thought energy gets transmuted as it travels through time and space. What would be required is a more direct connection between Il Dire and its energy source. Rambaldi believed that when you think about a person, the corresponding energy created is directed _to_ that person…and an energy link is created between them. According to the manuscript, once Il Dire is programmed with the correct DNA sequence, it searches for thought power from the One and follows it back to its source, thus creating the link necessary for activation."

Vaughn reasoned, "So then Sloane would have to abduct Sydney to…"

"Not necessarily," Irina cut in. "Think of Il Dire as a powerful radio receiver that is tuned to Sydney's personal frequency. In order to receive the channel, one of two things would need to be true. First, the origin of the signal would need to be close to the receiver. I believe this to be the reason why Sloane bothered keeping Jack alive; he knew from experience that Sydney would come to rescue him…"

"And then her 'signal' would be close enough to activate Il Dire," Vaughn finished.

"Yes. Luckily, the device was not yet ready when Sloane was ambushed by the CIA in Mexico City. However, Sydney doesn't have to be anywhere _near_ Sloane in order to activate the device. All that would be required is a stronger 'signal'—a more powerful stream of thought."

"Still, in order for machine to detect something as elusive as one person's thoughts, the thought sent would have to be an incredibly strong one," Vaughn hypothesized.

"One of the strongest," Irina concurred bleakly. "This is where the Prophecy comes in."

Vaughn's mind raced with possibilities as he envisioned the words of the Prophecy. _Where was the clue? What am I missing? 'This woman here depicted will possess unseen marks, signs that she will be the one to bring forth my work; bind them with fury, a burning anger…'__**a burning anger!**_

Vaughn's face blanched and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. It all made sense. The truth lay itself bare before him like a child's game. He could see it all; how all the pieces fit together more tightly than any jigsaw puzzle.

"Yes, you see it now," Irina said, noting the how shaken Vaughn suddenly appeared. "You see the true meaning behind Rambaldi's words. When one first reads the Prophecy, it appears to infer that the prophetic woman is actively seeking to bring forth Rambaldi's work _because_ of her anger. But in reality it is the opposite. It is Il Dire seeking its activation—its 'breath of life'—from the woman. The only way for Il Dire to be activated is through the power of thought, and the most powerful thoughts are based in emotion."

"The most powerful emotion is love. Therefore, when I saw that you and Sydney shared a bond of love, I…"

Vaughn continued Irina's thought, awestruck, "…You tried to get the two of us to admit those feelings and act upon them, because…"

Irina responded, "…Because love is the strongest of all the emotions. If Sydney were in love with you, and knew you returned her ardor, I believed that maybe she would see she had a choice. Maybe she would see that she could leave the world of espionage behind and share a more normal life with you. If she could put her past behind her, and with your help and the help of other loved ones around her, put the evils of Arvin Sloane behind her…"

"…Then none of her thoughts would be directed toward him," Vaughn finished.

"Exactly," Irina confirmed. "And the Prophecy would never be fulfilled. Her negative feelings would be tempered by love. The atrocities he committed against her would no longer seem as important and therefore…"

"…What thoughts remained would not be powerful enough to activate the machine." Vaughn concluded, feeling suddenly nauseous. _If only… If only I'd known…_ he thought in despair.

"Yes," said Irina, equally grim. "But my plan backfired. I hadn't counted on Sydney's need for revenge, her need to bring Arvin Sloane to justice. Despite the love she feels for you, her hatred of him has continued to multiply exponentially. In fact, Sydney's anger toward Arvin Sloane has grown so strong…"

"…That the stream of emotion directed toward him will activate Il Dire as soon as he sets the code," finished Vaughn, pent-up emotion choking him.

Irina sighed, shaking her head sadly. "Yes. And once it's activated…God help us all."


	19. Chapter 19

In The Air Tonight, Part 19

- - -

As much as Michael Vaughn didn't want to believe what Irina Derevko had just told him, his rational mind could not find a way to discount it. Too much of what she'd said made sense: horrible, sickening sense. However, her track record when it came to dealings with CIA officers wasn't exactly encouraging. "How do I know this isn't some sort of elaborate scheme you've created for your own benefit?"

Irina's eyes flashed with sudden anger. "You _know_ what I've told you is the truth, Mr. Vaughn. Don't make this a stubborn attempt to defy me. If there is any chance of preventing Sloane's activation of the device, action must be taken. You cannot waver."

Michael's features hardened as well. "Why do you need _me_ to take that action? Why can't _you_?"

"Because I've burned my cover in Sloane's organization," she replied. "I no longer have the connections I need to effectively track him. I don't know where he went while he was missing, but when he returned…he was more focused, more determined, more sure than ever before that he would bring forth Rambaldi's greatest work."

"I've known Arvin Sloane for thirty years. He was Jack's superior when they both still worked for the CIA. Arvin always had a soft side, an insecurity that was easy to play once you were aware it was there. It was that weakness that allowed Jack to infiltrate SD-6 undetected for so many years. I'm telling you now that this weakness no longer exists. Arvin Sloane is not the man he once was. His very determination and almost pious assurance of his success is unnerving."

"Somehow he _knew_ that I was going to betray him and used the opportunity to his advantage…and I didn't give away any clues. I've gone over it in my head hundreds of times, Mr. Vaughn. I cannot think of any moment that I tipped my hand to him, yet he anticipated my every move… It's almost as if…as if he _knows_ things…as if someone had given him the answers before we even knew the questions."

Vaughn recalled Jack Bristow's reports detailing his recent dealings with Sloane. Jack had said much the same thing: Sloane was different; he exuded more confidence, and seemed to anticipate his actions in ways he never had before.

"What can you tell me about the Rambaldi device itself? What is its purpose? What will it do once it's activated?" Vaughn asked Irina.

"Il Dire's purpose appears to be two-fold. Its first purpose is to pass on the knowledge acquired by Milo Rambaldi in all his areas of research. The full extent of this information is unknowable, because, as you're aware, Rambaldi had interests in many subjects. For example, we know that Rambaldi experimented with the idea of everlasting life. The orchid revealed in the capsule in Kashmir dated back to Rambaldi's age. The clockmaker, Donato, was also determined to be several hundred years old at the point of death."

Vaughn stared suspiciously at Irina. "How do you know about Donato? And how do you know he was the _same_ clockmaker? He could easily have been a descendant."

"His extended life was prophesized, Mr. Vaughn, as was the moment of his death," Irina revealed. "Once the SD-6 and K-Directorate agents cleared the building, I sent a team in to retrieve Donato's body. His DNA matched the string encoded in his prophecy. We carbon-dated a tissue sample. It revealed he was over 500 years old."

"Dereno was another such experiment of Rambaldi's. He was also several hundred years old at his time of death. It has yet to be determined how Dereno came to possess the heart, since there were no incisions, no scars. Obviously, Rambaldi possessed medical secrets yet to be discovered by modern man. All these secrets and more would be 'told' to the person in control of Il Dire. If Rambaldi truly discovered the secret to everlasting life, Sloane would be in sole possession of that information, as well as any other revelations Rambaldi may have had."

"Il Dire's second purpose is at least as dangerous as its first. The device 'tells' the future; it gives the owner a window into future events. I'm sure I don't need to enlighten you on how devastating it would be for the world as we know it if Arvin Sloane had this ability."

Vaughn shook his head numbly. It was almost too much to fathom. Arvin Sloane, armed with both Rambaldi's knowledge and his ability to see into the future…it made Vaughn shiver just thinking about it.

A sickening idea occurred to him. "What if…he's _already_ in possession of this knowledge? What if he's already activated Il Dire? You said that Sloane was able to anticipate your betrayal and that he appears confident in ways he never was before…"

"No," Irina declared firmly. "The device has not been activated. He was still in the process of assembling the device when he was ambushed in Mexico City. I assure you, when Il Dire is activated, you will know."

"What…?" Vaughn was afraid to ask the question, but needed to know the answer, "What will happen to Sydney once she activates the Rambaldi device? Will she…die?"

"It's not certain," Irina replied. "However, the Prophecy infers that if the One does survive the activation process, that she will be the only person capable of stopping the person that possesses Il Dire's power. _'Unless prevented, at vulgar cost she will render the greatest power unto utter desolation.'_"

"If Sydney's fate is sealed, then what is it you think can be done? What is it you want me to do?"

"Maybe Il Dire's activation can be delayed long enough to locate Sloane and destroy the device," Irina replied. "The Prophecy is unclear as to whether the possessor of Il Dire can be stopped only by the One _before_ activation. To my thinking, there are only two things we can do: keep Sloane from inputting the DNA code, and keep Sydney from activating it."

Dubiously, Vaughn asked, "How do you propose we do that? You've already said that the Rambaldi manuscript is encoded with Sydney's DNA, and you've told me that Sydney's anger will activate Il Dire as soon as it's programmed…"

"While the manuscript gives the genetic code of the Prophecy woman, Sloane will need a _sample_ of this genetic material in order to program the code. He will have to get a live DNA sample from Sydney, or have one on file. It has to be derived from living tissue; a hair or fingernail sample will not be enough. You need to make sure that no such genetic record can be obtained. Contact the hospital and have them sanitize any needles that came in contact with her. Make sure they burn any bandages that contain blood. Have them destroy blood samples used for testing. If the CIA has any such records, they need to be destroyed as well. While it would be standard operating procedure, make sure the cleaners remove all blood from the apartment. You must assume that Sloane would find a way to access this information."

Vaughn nodded soberly.

"And second… When you last saw Sydney, was she conscious?"

Not following Irina's reasoning, he studied her speculatively. "No, not yet…why?"

"You must ensure that she does not regain consciousness."

"What!?" Vaughn spit out, enraged at what it appeared Irina was proposing. "What the hell do you want me to do!? Prophecy or no Prophecy… I will _not_ harm Sydney…"

"I'm not asking you to," Irina responded coldly, hackles raised at Vaughn's insinuation that she wanted him to hurt her own daughter. "She simply needs to remain heavily sedated."

"Why?" Vaughn demanded.

"While the suggestion is abhorrent to you, Mr. Vaughn, you must admit it is a valid way to delay the device's activation. If Sydney remains unconscious, she cannot form nor send conscious thoughts to Sloane."

Irina was right…on both counts. While it _would_ keep the activation of Il Dire at bay, the idea of keeping Sydney unconscious for an unknown length of time while the CIA scoured the globe for Arvin Sloane was sickening.

"It is crucial that the information I am providing you not be recorded in any way by the CIA. Sloane used Will Tippin to access classified documents, as well as the KH-11 satellite. I cannot guarantee he does not have other, better placed moles within the ranks of the CIA. Involve only those who you are absolutely _certain_ you can trust."

After a moment of pause, Irina continued, "There is one more piece of information I must pass on to you, Mr. Vaughn. This intel could become vital if we are unsuccessful in preventing the activation of the Rambaldi device."

Vaughn looked at her intently, saying nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"There is a secret society; one that has sought for 500 years to protect the secrets of Rambaldi."

"The Order of Rambaldi," Vaughn supplied.

"Yes," Irina verified. "The Order of Rambaldi is a secret society much like the Priory of Sion and the Knights Templar. Like the Templars and the Priory, the Order of Rambaldi is rumored to protect a very important secret; one that is not mentioned elsewhere in Rambaldi's works, but is of incredible importance. Many criminals have attempted to infiltrate the Order to access this secret information. Knowing this, the Order formed a society within its own ranks, only passing on the most crucial information via word of mouth. According to former and current members I've interviewed, no written version of this information has ever existed."

Vaughn didn't want to contemplate what Irina's "interviews" would have consisted of to ply even that amount of information from members of such a brotherhood.

"However, there is rampant speculation that at any one time, there lies within the Order only one person who carries the secret: a person they call "Il Cassiere di Storia"—The Storyteller. That person's identity and whereabouts, for obvious reasons, is protected with their lives. It is said that The Storyteller holds the key to the mystery surrounding Il Dire, and untold other truths. Legend dictates that even if the Storyteller is found, he or she will only reveal the secret to one specific person."

"Who?" Vaughn asked.

"I don't know," Irina replied. "I'm not sure that anyone besides the The Storyteller knows the identity of that person. The only thing I _am_ sure of is this: the receiver of this knowledge is not the Prophecy woman, nor is it the person that activates Il Dire."

"So, not Sydney and not Sloane…and not you. That really narrows it down, thanks," Vaughn cracked.

Anger lit Irina's features. Rising to a stand, her voice low and menacing, she said, "Do not mock me, Mr. Vaughn. Or have you forgotten who has the weapon and who is chained to the bed?"

Vaughn glared back. "We both know that's an empty threat. Like it or not, you need me. You need me to follow up on your leads and to provide protection to Sydney. I'm sure you wouldn't have come to me if you had any other viable options. It's not exactly as if we trust each other."

Irina holstered her 9mm for the first time during their conversation. "You're right about one thing," she said at last. "We don't trust each other…so obviously you'll understand why I can't unlock your restraint."

This earned Irina an evil look from Vaughn.

Pulling a smaller gun from another holster attached to her leg, she continued with amusement, "Or why I did this…" aiming it directly at Vaughn's neck and pulling the trigger.

Vaughn flinched at the painful prick of his skin. Instantly a feeling of sickening warmth flooded his body and his head suddenly seemed too heavy to hold up. His eyelids drooping, the last thing Vaughn saw was the swirling, smirking face of Irina Derevko float unsteadily in front of him before he finally gave way to unconsciousness.


	20. Chapter 20

In The Air Tonight, Part 20

- - -

Jack Bristow awoke with a start. Despite his determination to remain awake at Sydney's bedside, the extreme stress and exhaustion of the last few days had taken their toll. Once he had settled into the rather uncomfortable chair by her bed, the steady beeping of monitors became entrancing and the adrenaline coursing through his system for the past few hours finally wore off.

The lighted dial of his watch told him it was 5:23 a.m. Massaging the sore muscles in his neck, Jack slid his body back upright in the chair. Peering blearily out the window, Jack could see the faintest hint of color in the otherwise black sky. Sunrise was coming fast; another day was beginning. Another cursed day in the life of Jonathan Donahue Bristow, Senior Field Agent for the CIA. Not that Jack ever allowed himself more than one moment of self-pity; if he did, the twisted life he led would have made him crazy a long time ago.

It had been less than 48 hours before that he'd been a captive of Arvin Sloane, one of the people responsible for his daughter's life-threatening condition. Now that he had time to reflect on it, he thought back to Mexico City, trying desperately to make sense of his most recent encounter with his former boss and current nemesis. Arvin had displayed an unnerving calm that was completely unlike the person he once knew. This Arvin was completely sure of himself and of his course of action. Jack had never seen him so supremely confident.

The master strategist in him sought answers, but his reason could find none. Jack suppressed a shudder. Arvin had truly seemed mad as he spoke of Rambaldi's work and the fact that he was moments from reaching his goal of bringing them forth. Maybe the answer was as simple as that; maybe Arvin Sloane was mad and simply kept him alive on a whim. Still, he reasoned, bait seemed more logical…

They were the only two logical choices. Jack had suffered nothing other than the removal of a blood sample and the sedation used so he could not escape. Moreover, whatever medication had been used only affected his muscles; his mind had been crystal clear. Sloane obviously wanted Jack in control of all his faculties during his captivity…the question was, why? Whom did Sloane _really_ want? Irina? Sydney?

Neither choice made much sense. Why would Sloane want Sydney? He'd had ample opportunities in the recent past to abduct Sydney, but he never had. Why lure her to Mexico City then?

And while Irina Derevko had apparently given Sydney the information she needed to locate Sark in Sweden, who then led the CIA team to the Mexico City location, there was no way to tell what game she was playing. Her actions could just as easily have been part of Sloane's master plan. The only thing sure about Irina Derevko was that she was never _really_ on any side besides her own. If she was helping the CIA locate Sloane, it could only be because his removal from the Rambaldi race would allow her to procure the device for herself.

He could not understand how his 'wife' could so blatantly use her own child for her benefit: playing 'Deep Throat' to Sydney's friend Will Tippin and then kidnapping him to procure the Rambaldi page describing The Circumference, forcing Sydney's help in delivering her plan to Sloane by holding hostage the serum for Michael Vaughn, having Sydney's best friend killed and replaced with a double in order to steal inside information on the CIA.

Staring down at the unnaturally still body of his only child, a white-hot rage filled him. _If Irina dare show herself to me again in our lifetime, I will kill her with my bare hands!_ he vowed. It was _her_ fault that Sydney was now fighting for her life in a hospital bed. The woman's greed knew no bounds.

A light rap on the open door to Sydney's room interrupted Jack's reflections. Jack looked up at the young agent standing in the doorway. "Sir?" he asked.

"Yes."

"It's Mr. Tippin, Sir. He's in recovery and ready to be moved. The nurses want to know if he should go into the regular ICU ward or here," the agent explained.

"No," Jack answered quickly and forcefully. "His life may still be in danger. I want him brought to this ward immediately. Both Mr. Tippin and Ms. Bristow are to be kept under 24 hour surveillance."

"Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir." The agent turned to walk away but stopped. Hesitantly he asked, "Sir? Any change with your daughter?"

Flatly, he responded. "None."

A long awkward pause ensued. Finally, the man mumbled, "Oh…"

"Any word on the double?" Jack asked the man at last.

"Yes, Sir," he replied, relieved that the tension was broken. Jack Bristow was a legend in the agency. However, after having met him…Truth be told, Jack Bristow sort of scared him… "Her body was brought to the Ops Center. After testing her blood and DNA sample, doctors have confirmed she was A.G. Doren."

"Inform Kendall that I would like an immediate investigation into the possible whereabouts of the real Francine Calfo. I need to know if she is dead or alive and in captivity somewhere. Now that the double is dead, we will have to uncover the truth about Ms. Calfo ourselves," he explained.

"Yes, Sir. Right away."

"Do not contact Ms. Calfo's family, however. There is no reason to notify them of anything until a determination can be made as to their daughter's true status."

"Of course, Sir," the officer replied. "Anything else, Sir?"

"No, that will be all. Thank you." Jack turned his attention back to his daughter, obviously signaling the end to their conversation.

The officer turned and left.

Jack leaned forward in his chair, rubbing his forehead worriedly with his hand. In the several hours Sydney had been lying there, she did not appear to have made any measurable progress. Considering her concussion was severe, it could be explained to a point, but it still made him decidedly uneasy. He didn't want to consider what life would be like without Sydney in it.

Sydney had always been his grounding force. While he had kept an emotional distance from her in the past, it was precisely because of her presence in his life that he was able to continue doing what he did. He wanted the world to be right for his little girl…to make it a world that was devoid of evil men like Arvin Sloane. Dedicated to that cause, he had been able to say and do many decidedly gray things without actually becoming evil himself. Because of her. Whenever he felt he had lost his way in the darkness that had become his life, all it would take was a few minutes of watching her peacefully slumbering to right himself again. If not for Sydney, he could have ended up like Irina…or even Sloane, fallen prey to the alluring mystery of Milo Rambaldi, or perhaps some other tantalizing evil…twisted and turned into a caricature of his former self.

Jack stood abruptly, nervous energy causing him to pace. Then, just as suddenly, he stopped, stooping over the bed, placing a soft kiss on Sydney's pale forehead. "Get well, soon, sweetheart," he whispered. "I love you." He watched her closely, seeing if there was any response. Logically, he figured there wouldn't be, but the more sentimental side of him had hoped. Seeing there was no response, he resumed his pacing.

The telephone in his coat pocket began to ring, the sound muffled and muted. Jack pulled it out, pressing the talk button mid-ring. "Bristow," he intoned stiffly.

"Hello, Jack," came the drawling reply.

Jack Bristow froze, inside and out. "Arvin," he choked out at last.

"Yes," Arvin Sloane chuckled, as if amused by Jack's reaction to his voice. "So nice to speak to you again. It's a pity our last visit was cut so short. I was looking forward to sharing my discovery with you."

"And why would you do that?" Jack asked, full of sarcasm.

"Because, Jack…We're friends. I said that before. Who better to share my discoveries with?" Sloane asked pleasantly.

"Who indeed?" Jack cracked.

"Now, now, Jack…sarcasm does not become you," Sloane remanded gently. "Where is that trademark Jack Bristow aloofness I know and love?"

"Apparently gone to wherever your mental faculties now reside…" snarled Jack.

"Jack," Sloane began gently, as if he were humoring a child, "I know you don't trust me. And I know you don't understand my fascination with Rambaldi…his works. But you will soon enough. Soon Il Dire will tell me its secrets. Soon I will know what Rambaldi knew."

For a long moment, neither one spoke. Then Sloane continued, "Come with me, Jack; take the final steps with me. I guarantee you will be handsomely rewarded…more than you could ever imagine."

"Arvin, you…you're insane. I thought I had made myself sufficiently clear that day at the restaurant: I will _never_ work with you."

"As did I when I told you we would join forces again soon. And which one of us turned out to be right?" Sloane sighed. "Jack, you cannot escape your destiny. Our collaboration is fated."

"I don't _believe_ in fate…" Jack spit out each word as if it was poisonous.

At this, Arvin Sloane laughed boisterously, as if Jack had just said something incredibly funny. "We'll speak again soon, Jack. You'll see…there's no escape," he promised ominously.

Before Jack had a chance to reply, the line went dead. Jack fought the urge to hurl the electronic device across the room, but then suddenly it began to ring again.

Jack pressed the talk button, expecting another parting shot from Sloane. "If you _ever_ contact me again, I will kill you!" he vowed, irate.

"Well, that wasn't _exactly_ the reception I was expecting…" came Michael Vaughn's groggy reply.


	21. Chapter 21

In The Air Tonight, Part 21

- - -

Michael Vaughn was what some people would call a morning person, an early riser. While he set his alarm nightly, there was rarely a morning that he wasn't up before it went off. There was something about the city in the early morning that rejuvenated him, that got his heart pumping. Normally, morning was the time that Michael's mind was the sharpest. Today, however, was _not_ a normal morning.

This morning, while Michael Vaughn's _brain_ wanted to be awake, nothing else was cooperating. Actually, even thinking was a struggle; it was like swimming through warm, thick molasses.

Hovering on the edges of consciousness, Vaughn's mind pondered the meaning of what _had_ to be the most bizarre nightmare ever dreamt: Being ambushed in his bedroom by Irina Derevko—who was both his father's murderer _and_ his lover's mother—while he was _naked_. And if that weren't enough, add the indignity of being handcuffed to his own bedpost…

_Freud would be having a field day with __**this**__ dream,_ he thought distantly. _It's like an entire Oedipal complex…or was it an Elektra complex?_ Vaughn suddenly pondered. This detail seemed incredibly important to get right for some reason, but his brain just wouldn't cooperate. Finally, he gave up. _Anyway, it was like a whole Oedipal/Elektra complex collided with the 'being naked in a public place' dream and became __**this…**_ Vaughn decided dazedly.

He didn't want to think about it anymore. He didn't want to think at all, in fact…it took too much effort. _Why?_ a part of him wondered, _Why is this so hard today? What's going on?_ But before he could latch onto them, the ideas slipped away like a gossamer cloud and he found himself floating in pleasant nothingness once again.

Then, as if from far, far away, there came a curious noise. It sounded like the buzzing of bees, but it echoed as if he were listening from underwater. He turned his head away, trying to ignore the irritating sound. _No!_ his lethargic mind protested, _Make it go away! It's so calm and warm here…._ But the insistent bees grew louder and closer, seeming almost to be swarming around his head…no, _inside_ his head…

_Whap!_ Vaughn's right arm shot—as if on instinct—across his body, hitting the snooze button on his alarm clock. His arm knocked into something on his bedside table, which went clattering to the floor, but he just didn't care enough to find out what it was. Groaning, he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. If his headache was this bad and he hadn't even opened his eyes yet…not to mention he had a terrific crick in his neck. Vaughn went to run his other hand through his already bedraggled hair…but for some odd reason, it wouldn't move.

Reluctantly peeking one eye open, Vaughn feebly flopped his head in the direction of his hand… and what he saw jolted him awake. His hand was cuffed to the bed…for _real_! Looking down quickly, he realized he was wearing the same terrycloth bathrobe Derevko had presented him with in his dream. A pinch in his neck that felt quite like a bee-sting made him reach up and extract something with his free hand: a tranquilizer dart.

Suddenly it sank in. Irina Derevko had really, truly been in his bedroom, and had seen him naked. Vaughn shuddered, remembering the degrading, assessing once-over he'd gotten. He supposed that was for effect, to unnerve him to gain the upper hand…well, it had certainly worked. And worse yet, her forcing him to handcuff himself to his bed while she relayed what she'd _said_ was vital Rambaldi information to him before shooting him with the dart he now held. And apparently, he'd spent the remainder of the night in a drugged stupor in the same hunched half-sitting position, because half the muscles in his body now cried out in protest.

Pushing his legs over the side of the bed, Vaughn struggled into a sitting position, facing his bedside table. "I don't suppose Irina would be kind enough to leave the _key_…" he pondered aloud while searching his table, the bed linens and the folds of his robe for any signs of said key. He didn't find one. "Damn it!" he swore, pounding his right fist on the bedside table. Then he began searching the top for something he could use to pick the lock, but there was only his lamp and clock on it, and he doubted either would be of any use. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the telephone resting in its cradle on the table at the other side of the bed, taunting him with its closeness, but too far away for him to possibly reach in his current state.

"Think, Vaughn, think…" he told himself, trying to force his sleepy mind to focus. He reached over and was barely able to pull open the drawer in the table. He had to shove stuff around one-handed and blind, twisting himself into a rather awkward position to do it. Muttering aloud as he searched, he catalogued, "Pencil…no. Legal pad of paper…no. Scissors…" He pulled out the scissors and surveyed them, but the points were much too large and thick to be used for picking even something as simple as a handcuff lock. "No…" he said, dropping them back in the drawer. "Tape…no. Letter opener…." He pulled it out of the drawer and examined it thoughtfully. _It might work…_ he thought as he tried inserting it into the lock for the cuff around his wrist. After a moment, Vaughn realized it was still too big. Sighing, he placed this back in the drawer and rooted around at the bottom, underneath the papers.

Finally, his hand closed upon something useful. "Aha, a paper clip!" he exclaimed, and grabbed a small handful of them, setting them beside him on the bed. He spent the next several minutes using his teeth to help unbend the clips and rebend them into useful shapes. Then, he set one paper clip in the lock, holding it in position with his teeth while using another in his right hand to pick the lock. After a few clumsy tries (after all, he _was_ left handed…), he heard the lock click with satisfaction. Pulling the cuff apart, he slid his wrist free and massaged it, trying to rub away the indented mark left from several hours wedged in the tight metal ring. He shook his hand to resume blood flow, feeling his numb hand tingle with painful needles.

Standing up, Vaughn placed both hands at the small of his back and stretched the kinks out. Then he lurched to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, trying vainly to clear the cobwebs out of his head. Clumsy from lack of sleep and from remnants of the drug, Vaughn stumbled back toward the bed. He ended up grazing the bedside table with his knee, putting him off balance. He stepped sideways quickly to regain his footing…. _Crunch!_

Something sharp jabbed Vaughn in the soft underside of his foot. "Sh*t!" he cursed, annoyed, and plopped gracelessly onto the bed to inspect the damage. Underneath his foot was the object that he had apparently knocked over in his rush to shut off his alarm: a data CD housed in a case with its front now splintered into clear plastic shards.

Bending over, he picked up the CD case, not recognizing it. Then he noticed it: in writing that he unfortunately recognized as Irina's, it said simply _Rambaldi_. Underneath the mass of broken plastic was a yellow post-it note. Brushing the mess aside, he read: _Keep this data safe. Sloane __**cannot**__ be allowed to access the contained intel. Do not view on CIA computers; use your personal laptop. If I find a lead on the Storyteller, I will contact you._

"What does she think…that I'm working for _her_ now!?" Vaughn scathed aloud with a scowl. "I refuse to become her little lap dog like Sark…" Picking up the piece of paper, Vaughn crumpled it viciously and whipped it toward the wastebasket by his desk. It bounced harmlessly off the wall and landed about eight inches from the receptacle. Vaughn wanted to trash the disc too, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Regardless of how much he hated Irina, he could not, in good conscience, dispose of what could turn out to be the intel that saves Sydney's life.

_Sydney…_ Suddenly, memories of everything from the night before crashed upon him like ocean surf: the horror he'd found at Sydney's apartment, the trip to the emergency room, Sydney lying so still and pale, his subsequent breakdown, Irina's visit…

He tried to find a fault in the line of thinking employed by Sydney's mother regarding the Prophecy, but his mind was still too clouded by the remaining effects of the tranq dart to consider it clearly. He needed someone to brainstorm with; someone else who no longer trusted anything Irina Derevko said either. He needed Jack Bristow.

_Jack!_ Yes, Jack was a master at game theory…if anyone could see through Irina's scheme it would be him! Or at least that's what Vaughn _hoped_. Besides, Jack was currently sitting at Sydney's bedside. He could discuss his "meeting" with Irina and find out how Sydney was doing all in one fell swoop. Sliding off the foot of the bed to avoid the broken plastic, he ambled out to the living room, trying to recall where he left his CIA issued cell-phone.

He bent down and fished into the plastic bag that contained his belongings, feeling around blindly until he located the phone. Vaughn couldn't bring himself to actually look down at the bag, knowing his bloody clothes were inside. It would be too painful, and right now he didn't have time for pain. He needed to talk to Jack, find out if Sydney could indeed be in more danger.

Fighting a wave of exhaustion, Vaughn headed back down the hallway to his bedroom. Stopping just inside the doorway, he yanked open the top drawer of his dresser and pulled out a pair of blue boxers. Then, turning on the cell phone, he speed dialed Jack's number. Cradling the phone between his left shoulder and ear, he balanced precariously as he slipped one leg into the shorts. He was about to slide the other side on when Jack answered his phone on only the second ring.

That was not very unusual for Jack Bristow… however his greeting to Vaughn was. "If you _ever_ contact me again, I will kill you!"

Vaughn was so taken aback by this response that he actually lost his grip on the waistband of his boxer shorts. He held the phone away from his ear and looked at it for a moment as if to say _What the hell!?_ and then brought it back to his mouth and replied, stifling a yawn, "Well, that wasn't _exactly_ the reception I was expecting…" Then he reached down to retrieve his forgotten underwear, now bunched around his ankle, and hastily slid them up into place before Jack could shock him into dropping them again.

Jack Bristow blinked, confused. "Vaughn!?"

"Yeah," Vaughn replied. "Who did you _think_ it was!?"

Jack's tone was immediately cool and businesslike. "Never mind. What do you want?"

"Two things. First… how's Sydney?"

Jack's voice was flat and emotionless. "The same. Unchanged."

Vaughn didn't know whether he felt more worried that Sydney hadn't woken up, or relieved because she hadn't yet fulfilled the Prophecy. He let out a long sigh, then untied his robe and tossed it away. It landed haphazardly draped off the bottom edge of the bed.

"And, second," Michael continued as he shuffled through his closet to choose a shirt and suit for the day, "did Irina Derevko call you last night?"

Vaughn could practically see Jack's spine stiffen at the question. "Why do you ask?" Anger bristled beneath the surface of Jack's query.

Vaughn deposited a blue shirt and gray suit across the top of his dresser. His tone hardened considerably as well. "Just answer the question, Jack," he demanded.

"Yes," Jack bit out at last. "I did receive a call from Derevko, but I had nothing to say to her. What business is it of yours?"

"You _made_ it my business by not talking to her," Vaughn replied.

"What are you talking about?" Jack demanded impatiently.

"What I'm talking about," Vaughn answered slowly, deliberately, "is because _you_ wouldn't listen to her, she went looking for someone else who would…_Me._"

"That's absurd," Jack scoffed. "You were one of the few agents that remained consistently skeptical of her motives while she was in CIA custody. I hardly think you a likely candidate for Irina to approach."

"Nevertheless, she was waiting for me in my apartment when I got home last night," Vaughn said simply. "The intel she shared with me was….enlightening."

"And you _believed_ her!? _You_? After everything she's done? To your father…your family? Why in hell did you even bother _listening_ to her!?" Jack fumed.

"You don't need to regale me with anecdotes from my own history, Jack; I am well aware of what she did. I wasn't thrilled about it, either, but I wasn't exactly given a choice," was Vaughn's sardonic answer.

"What do you mean?" Jack asked.

Vaughn sighed heavily. "You better sit down, Jack, because it's a long story."


	22. Chapter 22

In The Air Tonight, Part 22

- - -

Jack Bristow did not take kindly to being ordered around by anyone, least of all a subordinate. "I think I can manage," he concluded dryly. "Tell me about Irina."

Vaughn grabbed a pair of socks from his dresser and carried them and his suit to the bed, plopping down heavily upon it. "Like I said, she was here. I got home and took a shower. I don't know if she had already infiltrated the apartment or if it was while the water was running. She approached me after I was already in bed."

Considering that Vaughn knew Jack was most likely still quite touchy about the 'SpySex' tape, he tactfully left out the fact he was naked.

"Yes, go on," Jack prompted.

Vaughn balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder again while he slipped a sock on each foot. "One minute I was trying to fall asleep, and the next thing I knew, I had a 9mm pointed at my chest. I had no time to react."

"Understood. Then what?"

"She secured my wrist to the bedpost, effectively keeping me a hostage while she explained the reason for her visit."

"Which was?" Jack asked.

"She revealed that, after reading the completed manuscript, she became aware that Sydney was in danger," Michael explained.

"_Sydney's_ in danger? Yes, probably by Irina herself, and this is her way of camouflaging it…" Jack deduced coldly.

"I don't think so, Jack. Not that I enjoy placing much stock in _anything_ Irina Derevko says, but I must admit that her explanation is thorough, and makes much more sense than any other explanation of the Prophecy I've heard," Vaughn explained.

"I don't think that anything—"

"Jack, _Sydney_ is the woman from the Prophecy. Sloane and the resulting knowledge he will gain from the Rambaldi device is 'the greatest power'," Vaughn insisted.

"We've already _proven_ she isn't the Prophesy woman, or have you forgotten so quickly us breaking her out of federal custody?" Jack carped.

Vaughn slid his blue oxford shirt from the hanger and slid it over his shoulders. Buttoning it, he replied sharply, "No, I haven't forgotten, Jack…thanks for the vote of confidence. No, Irina explained the specifics behind the wording of the Prophecy. I won't get into detail about it now, though. She provided me with a disc that most likely will back up whatever claims she's made to me."

"She gave you a disc," Jack repeated dully.

"Yes, one that she says contains information that must be kept from Sloane."

"Unless the whole thing is an elaborate set up…."

"Yes, unless that," Vaughn qualified impatiently. "Listen Jack, right now I don't need your sarcasm, and I don't need your skepticism. What I _need_ is your help. I think there's some truth to what she's said, but I'll need your assistance proving it one way or the other."

"Why do you think that she would tell you anything besides lies?" asked Jack bitterly.

"Look, I've never seen Irina seem actually _upset_ about anything, but she was last night. She knows how I feel about Sydney and that I'd do anything to protect her. _That's_ why she came to me. Besides, you can't deny she's saved Sydney's life in the past."

"Fine," Jack acquiesced. " But she's also put her in harm's way as many times as she's saved her. She could easily be playing you; using your emotions for Sydney in order to get you to do something she wants. I think to believe _anything_ she says without sufficient evidence to back it up would be a mistake."

"Jack," Vaughn responded, "according to Irina, not only is Sydney the woman from the Prophecy, she will also be the one to activate 'Il Dire'. She will be the one to bind Rambaldi's work."

"Absurd," Jack replied. "There's no way Sydney would help Sloane. She loathes him."

"That's what I said. But, you see, it's _because_ she hates Sloane that she will end up helping him. Think about it… The Prophecy said that the woman would 'bring forth my work, bind them with fury'. It's Sydney's hatred of Sloane that will trigger Il Dire."

"So what you're telling me is that Sydney's _thoughts_ will trigger the device? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Jack scoffed.

"I know it sounds insane, Jack, but we're talking about Rambaldi, here. The guy created synthetic polymers, a suitcase neutron bomb, predicted several world catastrophes with startling accuracy five hundred years ago. Some of his other creations have yet to be understood. Why _couldn't_ he create a machine powered by thought?" Vaughn tried to reason.

Jack didn't answer. Instead he asked, "So what did Irina suggest you do to stop this from occurring?"

"Well…" Vaughn had a feeling that Jack would not like what he was about to say, "one of two things. Either we catch Sloane with the device before he tries to activate it…"

"…Which isn't very likely," Jack interrupted.

"Right. Or else…" Vaughn's voice trailed off uncomfortably.

"Or else what?" Jack insisted.

"Or else Sydney would need to stay heavily sedated so as not to activate the machine," Vaughn finished.

There was silence on the line for a minute before Jack sputtered, "That is…out of the question!"

"Hey, I'm not exactly thrilled about the possibility either, you know!" Vaughn spit back. "I don't like it any more than you do…but can we really afford not to until we find out whether Irina's intel is accurate? What if she's right and we didn't do something to try to prevent it?"

"And what if she just wants Sydney out of the way for a while so she can complete whatever self-serving mission she's on? Do you want to live with the idea that you helped your father's killer ascend into power?" Jack demanded.

"How about you?" Vaughn countered. "Do _you_ want to live with the idea that you helped the man who killed your daughter's fiancé _and_ her best friend ascend into the greatest power?"

"Vaughn, she has a serious concussion, from which she has yet to awaken. Prophecy or no Prophecy, I am not going to risk Sydney's life further by instructing her physician to sedate her." The note of finality in Jack's voice was clear. He would not be persuaded right now, no matter what Vaughn said or did.

"What if I can give you the proof you need?" Vaughn asked. "If I can somehow prove to you that Sydney _is_ the Prophecy woman and is in danger? Will you _then_ consider it?"

"_If_ you can provide me with reputable proof that Irina's theory is correct, I will _consider_ the course of action you've suggested," Jack accepted.

"And you'll let me know the minute Sydney's condition changes?" Vaughn insisted.

"Yes."

"Thank you."

Without further comment, Jack hung up.

Vaughn hung up as well, tossing his phone aside so he could use both hands to slip on his pants. Looking over his shoulder at his alarm clock while slipping a dark blue tie around his neck, he muttered "Damn!" under his breath. The clock said 7:18. It would take him a minimum of 10 minutes to finish getting ready, and it took, on a good day, at least 25 minutes to get to the Ops Center. And he had a feeling that, with the luck he'd had so far this morning, it would _not_ be a good day. There was no way around it: he was going to be late for work.


	23. Chapter 23

In The Air Tonight, Part 23

- - -

Well, Michael Vaughn could certainly say one thing: his luck for the day was staying true to form. To make up time, Vaughn had rushed through his daily grooming ritual, which got him out the door by 7:25 and gave him a decent chance of making it to work on time. But he quickly lost that advantage when he had to turn back after driving four blocks because he'd left the disc from Irina and his laptop sitting on his kitchen counter.

_Then_ he found that his car's air conditioner had mysteriously stopped working, and on a sunny May morning, that was _not_ a good thing. Still, he was able to cope by removing his suit jacket and rolling down the driver's side window. As long as he was at cruising speed, the breeze created made the heat bearable.

Vaughn's easy ride to work abruptly ended with the excruciatingly slow stop-and-go traffic he was now stuck in on the 101. Three exits from his turn-off and he was crawling along like a snail, seemingly inches at a time. Impatiently, he looked at his watch and then loosened his tie and rolled the sleeves of his oxford up to the elbow, uncomfortable in the heat.

When Vaughn had reached his exit, his watch read 7:58 am. By the time he accessed the restricted lot, parked, and jogged into the compound carrying his stuff, he was most definitely late…hot, sweaty, tired, and late.

The blast of cold air that hit him when he stepped inside the Ops Center felt so wonderful, Vaughn couldn't help but stop for a moment just to enjoy the sheer pleasure of it. He snapped out of his momentary lapse when someone jostled him from behind and he walked briskly around the outer edge of the rotunda to the entrance of the inner sanctum.

Just as Vaughn was slinging his suit coat onto the back of his chair and depositing his bags on the desk, Director Kendall marched straight up to him. "You're late," he said by way of greeting. "Did you not get the message as to what time I was expecting you?"

"No. I mean, yes I did, Sir," Vaughn replied with a tired sigh. "It's just that—"

"I want none of your excuses, Agent Vaughn," Kendall interrupted briskly. "I understand that last night was a setback, but you need to keep your head in the game. Your presence here is needed, and expected…._on time_."

_Last night was a setback?!?_ Vaughn thought, nonplussed by Kendall's gift for gross understatement. "Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir."

"Good. Don't let it happen again." Nodding toward Weiss, seated at the desk next to Vaughn's, he said, "I'll expect both of you in the briefing room in ten minutes. We've got a lot to go over."

"Yes, Sir," Weiss replied dutifully, although when Kendall walked away, he made sure to make a face at his retreating back. "Man, that guy's a prick," he said conspiratorially, leaning forward in his seat, closer to Vaughn. "I wonder if he had to go to school for that or if it just comes naturally…"

Vaughn's weak smile was more of a grimace. He plopped himself bonelessly into his seat and laid his head back against the cushion for support.

Eric took a long look at his friend. He looked exhausted, mentally and physically…not to mention beat up, hot, and pale. "Mike, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you look like sh*t," Weiss informed him with concern. "Are you _sure_ you're up to this?"

Vaughn wasn't at all sure he was up for anything that might happen today, but he also knew he didn't have a choice. He owed it to Sydney to try and find out what was going on and if Irina was indeed right about her part in the Rambaldi enigma. Forcing himself back into a more normal sitting position, he bluffed, "Yeah, I'm all right. I'll be fine."

Eric's look told him he was extremely skeptical of Vaughn's bravado. "Yeah, sure you are…and I'm Charlie Sheen."

Vaughn's mouth tilted up into a half-hearted smile. "Well, with your love of the ladies, you _could_ be Charlie Sheen."

"Not unless I lost about fifty pounds," Eric admitted ruefully, placing both hands on his stomach.

"If you could just lay off a couple of those '99 Cent Beer & Nachos' nights at Starkey's, you'd be much better off," Vaughn replied.

"Yeah, yeah…but we were talking about you," Weiss quickly switched the focus back to Vaughn. "Seriously, man, you look like you had a bad night last night."

"Bad wouldn't even _begin_ to cover it," Vaughn admitted tiredly, rubbing his forehead as if it would help his headache subside.

"Worried about Sydney, huh? Well, I could see that. Any word on how she's doing?"

"The same, according to Jack," Vaughn answered. For a moment, he couldn't decide if he wanted to tell Eric about his nighttime visitor, but decided he needed to if he were going to enlist his help. "But that's not what made my night so horrible."

"Oh?" Eric asked, surprised. "If it wasn't Sydney, then what _did_ make it so awful?"

"That would be due to a certain unexpected _visitor_ that called on me in my apartment last night," Vaughn began.

"What!?" Eric asked shocked. "Who!?"

"Irina Derevko, that's who."

"No way! You're pulling my leg!" Weiss accused.

"I only wish I were," Vaughn replied.

Eric studied Michael's face for a moment. It was obvious he was dead serious. "Oh, my God…you're not kidding, are you?"

"No, I'm not."

"Whoa… Mike, you gotta tell me everything. What the hell happened!?" Eric gasped.

"When I got home from the hospital, I was in no fit shape to notice anything," Vaughn started. "so I honestly have no idea if she was already there or not. I kind of just dropped everything inside the door and headed straight for the shower. I…" Vaughn did not want to go into detail about his breakdown, so he simply covered by saying, "I took a long shower to try to clear my head. She could have gotten in at that point, I don't know."

"Anyway, after the shower, I pretty much headed right off to bed. I was pretty exhausted."

"Uh huh…then what?" Eric prompted.

"Suddenly it felt as if I was being watched… I sat up and looked around; there was a movement by my closet. It was Irina, and she was packing a 9mm Luger."

Shocked, Eric said, "Sh*t! You mean she ambushed you in your _bedroom_!? While you were _in bed_!?"

"Did I mention that I was naked at the time?" Vaughn added wryly.

"Holy Oedipal complex, Batman!" Eric whistled. "Man, that is just…twisted!"

"_Tell_ me about it," Vaughn agreed.

"Did she _know_ you were naked, though?"

"Oh, yeah, she knew. She made a _point_ of letting me know that she knew," Vaughn replied with revulsion.

"Ew, now _that_ is messed up…" Weiss shuddered, but then his eyes lit up with a mischievous twinkle. "Not to mention it's got to be some kind of record. I wonder how many guys can say they've exposed themselves to _both_ his girlfriend's parents in less than two weeks time?"

"Eric…" Vaughn warned darkly.

Weiss immediately sobered. "Sorry, sorry…go on. You were naked…she was checking you out…then what?"

Eric's irreverent summation earned him another dirty look from Vaughn. "What?" Eric asked innocently.

"Anyway…" Vaughn continued, perturbed with his friend's mirth over his predicament, "So she informed me she had information for me…about Sydney."

"And you said…" Eric prompted.

"I basically told her to go to hell because we both knew she didn't really care about Sydney, only herself," Vaughn replied.

"Which I'm sure went over _reeeeaaaallly_ well with Ms. Derevko."

"Yeah, not. I've got the bullet hole in my mattress to prove it."

"She _shot_ at you!?"

"Let's just say she missed on purpose," Vaughn explained. "A warning."

"Greeeaaaat. Then what?"

"She _persuaded_ me to listen to her story."

"Yeah? Like how?"

"She made me handcuff myself to the bed," Vaughn mumbled softly.

"What? What'd she do? I didn't hear what you said," Eric asked with a smile, leaning in closer to hear. If Vaughn was mumbling, he knew it _had_ to be good.

"I said," Vaughn said louder, angrily, "that she made me handcuff myself to the bed."

Eric Weiss kept a straight face for exactly a half a second before he burst out laughing.


	24. Chapter 24

In The Air Tonight, Part 24

- - -

Michael Vaughn briefly wondered if he could successfully claim the insanity defense if he strangled his best friend in the middle of the Ops Center rotunda.

"Eric, this is _not funny!_" Vaughn hissed furiously.

Weiss tried to regain his composure, but it was a losing endeavor. "I _know_ it's not funny… but in a way, it _so_ is!" Weiss crowed, his snickers and snorts causing more than one person to turn around and stare at him. "It's like a plot from a bad porno flick: sexy but evil Spy Mommy handcuffs daughter's conveniently naked boyfriend to the bedpost…"

Vaughn looked positively murderous. "I was _not_ naked!" he defended. Sheepishly he explained, "She gave me my robe first…"

This information only served to rouse another round of robust chuckles from Weiss. "Oh, excuse me, I stand corrected…" he said with mock seriousness, before dissolving into giggles again.

Vaughn rubbed his aching temples with his fingers. This conversation was certainly not going as planned. Wearily he said, "Eric, while this may seem like an amusing anecdote to you, may I remind you that this is the same woman that masterminded the theft of 24 Rambaldi artifacts from the US Government before breaking out of custody, not to mention killing 12 CIA agents…my father included?"

Eric immediately sobered. Honestly abashed, he apologized, "Geez, I'm sorry Mike. I got so caught up in the absurdity of the situation; I totally forgot what she has done to you and your family. It must have been really awful for you."

"Well, it was no picnic, that's for sure," Vaughn admitted. "Being forced to sit there, helpless, in the company of your father's killer…not on my top ten list of fun activities…"

"You said she had information about Sydney. What information?" Weiss prompted.

"She told me that Sloane had disappeared a few weeks back, and that during that time she was able to study the entire Rambaldi manuscript. She—"

"Wait," Eric interrupted. "Did you say that Sloane _disappeared_?!? _When_ did he disappear?"

"A few weeks ago. Around the time we acquired the Dereno heart."

"Okay. But obviously he came back."

"Obviously. Anyway, during that time Irina claimed that she finally understood the true uses and purpose of Il Dire…as well as Sydney's part in the Prophecy," Michael explained.

"Wait a second… _Sydney's_ part in the Prophecy? I thought we proved she _wasn't_ part of the Prophecy by extracting her to Mount Sebacio?" Weiss asked.

"According to Derevko, that trip served no purpose with regard to the Prophecy. She said that when Rambaldi used the words 'the beauty of my sky', he was speaking of a freak astrological occurrence he witnessed in during his lifetime."

"So…what? Sydney's supposed to be the _enemy_ now!?" Eric questioned, clearly skeptical.

"No," Vaughn answered. "Because 'the greatest power' has nothing to do with the U.S. Government. In Rambaldi's eyes, the possessor of Il Dire is 'the greatest power'."

"Holy crap! You mean _Sloane_ is 'the greatest power'?" Eric said, shaken.

"It would appear so, yes," Vaughn replied.

"Well then, what about the rest of the Prophecy stuff? The part about the Prophecy woman bringing forth Rambaldi's works?"

"That's where this story gets complicated," said Vaughn. "According to what Irina told me, she discovered from the manuscript that, even with all 47 pieces, the Il Dire device is not quite complete. It needs one more thing to activate."

"What thing is that?"

"The power of thought. Specifically the power of _one person's_ thoughts."

"Sydney's," Eric concluded.

"Exactly. Il Dire searches out and captures the Prophecy woman's thoughts, using them as a power source to activate the device," Vaughn clarified.

Eric looked doubtful. "Look, I know this Rambaldi guy was supposed to be a genius, but doesn't this strike you as slightly…impossible?"

"Yes. Just as impossible as creating a suitcase neutron bomb in the 15th century…but yet he did that, so…" Vaughn pointed out.

"Point taken. But, Sydney's not going to help Sloane, Mike. That just doesn't make any sense."

"She won't _mean_ to, Eric…but she will…because she hates Sloane so much. All that anger directed at him…she'll literally be sending out a beacon to Sloane saying, 'Here I am!' She'll make it easy for him. It's only a matter of time," Vaughn concluded gravely.

Weiss paled. "So what happens when Sloane activates the device?"

"Well, Irina said that Il Dire has two purposes: it 'tells' the possessor all the secrets of Rambaldi's creations…and it 'tells' the future, allowing the possessor to change the future at will."

"Mike…this is bad…_really_ bad."

Vaughn nodded solemnly.

"Like Hindenberg bad…Titanic bad…_Hiroshima_ bad," Eric shivered.

"Like 'the end of the world as we know it' bad…" Vaughn countered.

"Can't we do something? Isn't there some way to prevent this?" Eric asked desperately.

"Maybe," Michael replied. "But they are long shots at best. If we could catch Sloane and retrieve the device before activation, that would, of course, prevent it. However, seeing that Sloane had completed the device by the time we rescued Jack, that's not likely."

"Okay. What else?"

"Well, Irina said that the machine has to be programmed with Sydney's DNA sequence in order to locate her thoughts. The manuscript has Sydney's DNA sequence encoded on it, but that's not enough. According to Irina, it has to be a live sample."

"So if we destroy any current samples…" said Eric, following along.

"We can at least prolong the inevitable…maybe long enough to catch him," Vaughn finished. "The last option is the worst by far…"

"What is it?"

"Keeping Sydney under constant sedation, never allowing her to regain consciousness. If she can't consciously think, there is no power to transmit," Vaughn explained miserably.

"You can't be serious, Mike!" Weiss gasped.

"I wish I weren't, but I am."

"Mike," Eric said at last, "are you _sure_ that Irina was telling you the truth? I mean, she's not exactly the most trustworthy individual."

"No, I'm not sure, Eric; that's part of the problem." Vaughn sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I loathe the idea of taking such an extreme measure, yet I'm terrified that if we don't…"

"It could all turn out to be true…" Weiss finished. "Yeah, that sucks."

Both men sat in silence for a moment, wrapped up in their own thoughts. Finally, Weiss asked, "So…if Sloane does activate the machine….what happens to Sydney?"

Vaughn looked up from his hands, meeting Eric's eyes. His face said it all: terror, confusion, and incredible pain. In a choked voice, he answered, "I don't know."

Vaughn lowered his head, blinking back sudden tears. Weiss stared at the floor, shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

Both men jumped at the sound of Kendall's voice suddenly booming just above them. "Did I just _imagine_ it, or did I not inform the two of you that there was a _meeting_ that your presence was required at!?"

Staring across at Vaughn, Eric realized his friend was in no fit state to answer. "You did, Sir," he replied.

Kendall's beady eyes bored into Weiss. "Well, were you waiting for a _written invitation_!? Sorry, boys, but I left my _personalized stationery_ at home today…"

"No, Sir," Eric answered hastily. "We'll be right there, Sir."

Kendall crossed both arms across his chest, glaring first at Weiss, then at Vaughn, who was still hunched over with his head down, struggling for control over his emotions. It almost seemed as if Kendall sensed this, because instead of launching into another tirade, he simply harrumphed and stalked off.

"You know, I wonder if the glare off that guy's head has ever actually blinded anybody…" Eric wondered aloud. He thought he heard a slight snicker from Vaughn in response.

Encouraged, he continued, "Really, I think he waxes it… I bet he even has a permit for it, you know, for assault to the senses by wearing a deadly weapon…"

Vaughn snickered again, looking up at his friend with a grateful smile. He stood, rolled down his sleeves, tightened his tie, and slipped his sport coat back on. Shaking his head, Vaughn said, "Thanks, man. But you do know you're a complete nut, don't you?"

Weiss stood also, clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder. "That's what you love about me."

"Yeah," Vaughn agreed wryly, teasing Weiss. "Don't remind me…"

Walking down the hallway toward the briefing room, Weiss teased, "You know, I'm _definitely_ gonna have to store that one away for future use…"

"Store _what_ away?" Vaughn asked, confused.

"Seriously? If I'm late for work? _Best. Excuse. Ever…_"

"Weiss…" Vaughn warned.

But there was no stopping Eric now that he was on a roll. In a saccharine, high-pitched voice, he simpered, "Sorry, Director Kendall…I know I was late but, you see, last night an enemy agent snuck into my apartment and handcuffed me to my bedpost…"

Eric's monologue ended abruptly with "Oof!" as Vaughn elbowed him hard in the ribs.

Vaughn shook his head ruefully, rolling his eyes at his friend's antics. "You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

"In the foreseeable future? Not on your life," Eric replied with a grin. Pulling the door to the briefing room open, he joked, just low enough for only Vaughn to hear, "Come on, Mike…let's go see what Captain Glow-Dome wants…"


	25. Chapter 25

In The Air Tonight, Part 25

- - -

Michael Vaughn and Eric Weiss were just pulling out seats around the square conference room table when Director Kendall turned and addressed the room. "Well, now that we're _all_ here…we can begin."

A quick glance around the room revealed all the usual agents, with a marked difference: both Jack and Sydney Bristow were missing.

"For those of you who might not be aware, the identity of the second double has been identified," Kendall began, pushing a button on the remote he was holding. Instantly, the viewing screens lit up with a picture of a young black girl, "as Alison Georgia Doren. She is one of the children identified earlier by research provided by Analyst Tippin as having been involved in the KGB's version of "Project Christmas" . She had supposedly been killed several years ago in a bus crash. We have now determined that she, as the second double, assumed the identity of this woman," Kendall continued, hitting the remote again,"Francine Calfo, friend of Agent Bristow and Analyst Tippin."

Dixon's eyes flashed in recognition and Marshall's mouth hung open. "You…you mean it was Sydney's _other_ friend that…?"

"Yes, Mr. Flinkman," Kendall interrupted abruptly. "She was the one that planted the bugs and other surveillance in Agent Bristow's home, not to mention a listening device was found planted in one of your ties, Agent Vaughn." Kendall gave Vaughn a pointed look that said much more.

Kendall did not have to tell Vaughn which one. Obviously the "gift" he'd received held more than met the eye…

"We cannot ascertain at this time how much damage intel-wise has been done by the placement of this double, however, we now know that this current threat has been neutralized…at great cost to the Agency."

"How so?" Dixon spoke up for the first time.

"Last evening Ms. Doren was found dead inside Agent Bristow's apartment. Apparently there was a struggle that included both Agent Bristow and Analyst Tippin. Both were critically injured and are fighting for their lives, although it appears that Agent Bristow was able to inflict the deadly wounds before slipping into unconsciousness. Senior Agent Bristow is currently on assignment at the hospital providing 24 hour protection for Tippin and Bristow."

Dixon was stunned into silence. Sydney may have been his SD-6 partner for many years, but he cared about her like she was family. He hazarded a glance over at her CIA partner, Michael Vaughn. Even if Dixon hadn't been aware of their relationship, he would have known this man was in love with Sydney. There was a broken, almost haunted look in his eyes that he couldn't hide, one that could only come from the kind of devastated heartbreak he himself had felt when he'd lost Diane. He knew with a sudden certainty that Vaughn had been the one to discover the scene at Sydney's apartment last night.

"As you're aware," Kendall continued, apparently impervious to the undercurrents flowing through the room, "Sloane is still in possession of the Rambaldi device and appears poised to activate it, and as yet, we have no idea where he is or what this device does. Irina Derevko is still at large and may or may not be helping Sloane. And, as of now, we have no leads on Sloane, Derevko, or the device."

"Sir?" Vaughn interrupted hesitantly.

Kendall turned and focused his complete attention on Vaughn. "Yes, Mr. Vaughn. You have something to add?"

Vaughn fidgeted in his seat, cleared his throat, and said, "Actually, I may have leads on all of those things."

Kendall looked nonplussed. He crossed his arms before him and replied, "Care to fill _us_ in, Mr. Vaughn?"

- - -

Vaughn spent the next twenty minutes explaining the intel he'd received from Irina Derevko the night before about Il Dire, Sydney's involvement, the Order of Rambaldi, the Storyteller…everything. The only thing he carefully steered away from was the specifics of the actual encounter, other than explaining she'd been at his apartment when he got home from the hospital.

When he finished speaking, he looked around the room. Everyone appeared thunderstruck, at a complete loss for words, even Weiss, who had heard part of it before.

Finally, with a sneer, Kendall spoke. "What do you think this is, Science Fiction Theater!? Do you actually expect us to _believe_ this…nonsense, Agent Vaughn!? You actually want us to believe that Sydney Bristow will activate the Rambaldi device _with her thoughts!?_ And you got this _crucial_ piece of intel from no less than _Irina Derevko!?_ Have you forgotten just who and what that woman is!? Maybe I was wrong to have you join us today, Agent Vaughn, since your judgment is obviously impaired…"

Placing both hands palms-down on the conference table, his narrowed eyes alight with barely controlled frustration and anger, Vaughn dangerously spit out, "The last thing I need is a lecture from _you_ as to who and what Irina Derevko is! You said you wanted leads. I _provided_ you with leads. Maybe you find them ridiculous, preposterous. Fine. I think they're a little crazy myself. However, regardless of my _personal feelings_ about the woman, or the intel she provided, I feel I _owe_ it to Sydney, to Will, to the _real_ Francie Calfo, to determine if there is any truth in her claims. Maybe, if I'm lucky, I can stop Arvin Sloane from activating that device in the process."

"You better watch your tone, Mr. Vaughn, if you expect to remain a part of this task force," Kendall threatened, his beady eyes dark and menacing.

But Vaughn was too upset to be chastised by Kendall's threats. "What kind of a task force is this if we don't follow the leads that we have? You can threaten and mock me if you like, but personally, I've had enough. I don't know _what_ your problem is with me, and at this point, I don't care. I'm not just going to sit on my ass and listen to your bulls*** when I've got intel to verify. I don't know about you, but _I've_ got work to do and I'll be _damned_ if a pompous, egotistical, emotionally stunted _jackass_ like yourself is going to stop me!"

With that, Vaughn pushed himself forcefully to a stand, sending the chair he'd been sitting in careening backward violently. Turning abruptly, he stalked toward the doors leading out of the briefing room.

"Agent Vaughn…Agent Vaughn! You get back in here now! _Agent Vaughn!_" Kendall called, but he ignored him and kept on walking. Vaughn knew that if he stopped now, he'd only say something even worse than he already had. God knew Kendall would probably have him suspended as it was. Not that he cared at that moment. All that mattered was Sydney.

He had almost made it back to the inner sanctum when Weiss came jogging up behind him. "Mike! Hey, Vaughn, wait up!"

Vaughn didn't bother to slow his pace.

Finally, Eric caught up with him, although he was walking fast to keep up. "Geez, Mike; where's the fire?"

"Hopefully under Kendall's ass," Vaughn retorted.

"Heh, funny you should mention him. You should have seen his face, Mike…it got so red and swelled up, I swear his head was about to pop off!" Weiss told him with relish. "I mean, I'd bet everyone in that room was _thinking_ what you said, but, man! Balls of Steel, seriously!"

"Look Weiss, I'm really not in the mood at the moment," Vaughn informed him. "I've got a lot of work to do if I'm going to verify any of this intel." Reaching his desk, Vaughn sat down and pulled Irina's disc out of a side pouch on the bag containing his laptop.

"Lemme help," Weiss said, sitting down in his chair and scooting it over so it was next to Vaughn's.

Vaughn looked up, surprised. "Really? Because Kendall will probably suspend me as it is; I don't want to get you involved in that."

Eric looked at his friend as if he had three heads. "If you think I'm not going to be part of this investigation, you're crazy. Hey, Sydney's my friend, too. I mean, not in the way that she's _your_ friend…"

Vaughn gave Weiss a pointed look, and he quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, if there's _any_ truth to what Irina said, well…we gotta do something."

"Thanks." Vaughn gave his friend a grateful smile.

"Uh…Mr. Vaughn?" stuttered a hesitant voice from behind him. "We want to help, too."

Vaughn turned around and saw Marshall Flinkman, Carrie Bowman, and Marcus Dixon standing over him.

"You were right," Dixon said quietly, placing a hand on Vaughn's shoulder. "Even though the information came from Irina Derevko, there has to be _some_ reason why she'd risk approaching you directly. We'll never find out that reason unless we investigate her intel."

"And…and…Carrie…uh, Miss Bowman and I might be able to decipher any Rambaldi-related documents she might have provided you," Marshall offered.

Standing next to Marshall, Carrie silently nodded her assent. "We'll all help," she said simply.

Watching this scene from around the corner, an unsmiling Kendall's jaw flinched in fury. It appeared that young Agent Vaughn had started a mutiny. _Well,_ he thought as he stormed off in the direction of his office, _**I**__ may not be able to control him, but I can think of one person who __**can**__…_


	26. Chapter 26

**In The Air Tonight, Part 26**

**- - -**

Michael Vaughn was pleasantly shocked at the outpouring of support from his friends and co-workers. "Wow…guys. Um, thanks. I'm sure it would mean a lot to Sydney to know she has such great friends."

Carrie Bowman dared a knowing smile. "We know how much this means to you, too. We all know how important Sydney is to you."

Vaughn wasn't sure how to answer that. _Am I really that obvious?_ he wondered, but he supposed he probably was. He hadn't been that great at hiding his emotions before he and Sydney had finally acted upon their feelings; he was probably even less so now that he was able to have the kind of relationship with her that he could only previously dream about. Still, this was the CIA, and relationships between agents were highly frowned upon. Michael opened his mouth to deny the claim, but found that he just couldn't do it. Finally, he simply said, "Thank you," the solemn tone letting them all know that he truly meant it.

"Well," he said, getting up from his chair and motioning Marshall toward it, "I haven't even had a chance to look at this disc. I have no idea what's on it. Maybe you and Carrie could check this? See if there is any copies of Rambaldi manuscripts you could work on?"

Marshall nodded and sat. Carrie Bowman pulled up a chair from another nearby desk and sat next to him. "But, just make sure you don't use this disc on any CIA computers," Vaughn warned, motioning instead toward his personal laptop. "Irina said she had a hunch that Sloane could have other moles in the CIA and that it was imperative he not find this intel. Of course, knowing Derevko, that thing could include thousands of photos of post-it notes…"

"We'll get right to work on it, Agent Vaughn," Carrie Bowman replied, leaning over so she could see the computer screen over Marshall's shoulder.

"Dixon," he said, turning to him. "We need to make sure there are no live DNA samples _anywhere_ that Sloane could access. That includes the CIA. Many years ago, Sloane worked for the CIA; for all we know, he could still have agents loyal to him imbedded within the ranks."

Dixon gave Vaughn a short nod. Patting him on the shoulder, he said, "I'm on it," and then walked off in the direction of Medical Services.

"Eric," Vaughn turned next to his best friend. "I need you to pull all the intel we have on the Order of Rambaldi. If we have any hope of finding this 'Storyteller'…we need to have some reliable intel on where they originate from, their members…anything."

"Gotcha," he replied. After studying Vaughn's face for a moment, he asked with concern, "What are you going to do?"

Vaughn's features hardened. "I've got someone I need to talk to."

- - -

The sun was much higher in the sky now, a shaft of white light infiltrating the otherwise dismal hospital room. Jack Bristow paced endlessly, casting shadows on the wall each time he passed by the window. He had shrugged off his trench coat, revealing the suit he wore underneath, however, it had lost its freshly creased appearance that Jack's suits always seemed to have. Right now, he was tired, uncomfortable, stubbled, and wrinkled…and none of that factored into his thoughts at all.

All he could think about was this wonderful woman, his daughter, laying between sterile white sheets in front of him. It had been twelve hours now and there was still no real change in her condition, and he was worried. Even with a concussion, he felt that she should have shown some signs of consciousness by now. Or maybe it was just his impatience at waiting for her to get well, he wasn't sure. He was a man unaccustomed to dealing with emotion, but where his daughter was concerned there was no denying them.

His ringing cell phone pulled him from his self-destructive reverie. "Bristow," he intoned harshly, not thrilled with the interruption of his vigil over Sydney's bedside.

"Jack? It's Kendall."

"Yes." Jack verified in a monotone. "What do you want?"

All business, Kendall stated in his slightly condescending way, "We need to talk about your boy, Jack. He's caused quite a ruckus over here this morning."

"Excuse me?" Jack asked, confused. "My…_boy_?"

"Agent Vaughn," Kendall clarified.

A sliver of ice crept into Jack's otherwise even-toned voice. "I assure you there is no blood relation between Mr. Vaughn and myself."

Kendall sighed with impatience. "You know what I mean, Jack. Did he tell you about this ridiculous theory he got from Irina Derevko!?"

"Yes."

When he realized that Jack wasn't going to elaborate further, he pushed, "Well…do you think there's any _merit_ to this intel!?"

"Of course not," Jack replied testily. "_Nothing_ that Irina Derevko says can be taken at face value. She has already proven that fact to us. There can only be one real reason why she would have approached Agent Vaughn: to involve him and the CIA in another one of her schemes."

"That's my thinking," Kendall agreed. "But Agent Vaughn doesn't see it that way and took _great pains_ to make sure I knew it. He's still insisting on investigating the data…_against_ my express orders."

"Then let him investigate," Jack suggested. "Vaughn needs to feel that he's doing something to help Sydney. He probably feels obligated to follow the lead because she's Sydney's mother. He has no love for Derevko, though; let me assure you of that. He'll realize soon enough that Irina is playing some sort of game with him, and then things will be back to normal."

Kendall was not convinced. "Agent Vaughn is getting harder and harder to control. He's a loose cannon, Jack. Something needs to be done about that."

"Why are you telling me this?" Jack asked in a blasé way that intimated that he knew _exactly_ why Kendall was telling him.

"It seems to me that ever since Agent Vaughn became Agent Bristow's handler, he's picked up a certain…_flair_ for rule-bending and insubordination…things he was not well known for before. Any idea where he might have picked up those…_traits_, Jack?"

"I haven't the slightest," Jack replied calmly, knowing this would only ire Kendall further. But, Kendall was such a pompous ass that Jack couldn't help but enjoy pissing him off from time to time.

"Right…right," Kendall answered angrily, clearly not convinced. Changing the subject, he asked, "What the status on Tippin and your daughter?"

"Not much has changed," Jack replied tersely. "Tippin's condition is serious, but stable. Sydney's injuries _appear_ to no longer be life-threatening, but she still hasn't woken up."

"Fine. Continue to monitor the situation and let me know if there are any changes…" Kendall said gruffly.

"Fine," Jack answered, effectively hanging up on Kendall. Shoving the cell phone back into the breast pocket of his shirt, he continued to pace.

- - -

Michael Vaughn was almost at his destination when he ran into—almost literally—Director Kendall. "Agent Vaughn, I'd like a word with you," he began, his tone telling Vaughn he would brook no argument.

Vaughn nodded, stepping aside with Kendall out of the line of foot traffic.

"Let me make one thing clear to you, Mr. Vaughn…" Kendall began, a carefully controlled fury in his eyes, "that the only reason I am allowing this little…_charade_ to continue is because there are no other viable leads at the moment."

Vaughn sensed there was more to this conversation than that. "…And?"

"And once we _have_ viable leads, I will _expect_ you and your _fan club_ will obey my orders to follow them. Otherwise… you will all get written reprimands. And I promise I will make your life a living _hell_ for the amount of time it takes to remove you from this task force. Is that clear?" Kendall asked.

"Yes." Vaughn replied, clenching his fists at his sides, but otherwise not reacting.

"Are we clear!?" Kendall demanded, seeing the look of defiance in the young agents demeanor.

"_Crystal_ clear….._Sir_," Vaughn spit out.

Kendall clenched his jaw, crossing his arms in front of him, and stared for a long moment at Vaughn, as if assessing him. Finally, he nodded once and walked off.

Turning, Vaughn walked, his step full of purpose, down a long hallway. He knew there was at least one person around here who had more answers than he was giving. Vaughn intended to _get_ those answers; and, in his current frame of mind, he didn't particularly care what he had to do to get them.

Reaching the end of the hallway, he approached a desk where sat a guard on duty. Showing his ID badge to the officer he said in a determined voice, "I've come to see the prisoner."


	27. Chapter 27

**In The Air Tonight, Part 27**

**- - -**

_Well if there was one thing to like about being in CIA custody_, Sark thought, his hands behind his head while laying on his back on his metal tray of a bed, _at least there was plenty of time to think._ That, and, even though the accommodations weren't as spacious or comfortable as he was used to, he could sleep without the worry of having his head blown off. _Ah, well,_ he thought, _hazards of the trade, I suppose._

Spy work was a trade he was well used to, even at his relative young age. Like Alison, he'd been chosen to participate in a special summer camp when he was 7, except his had been in England: his homeland, or at least he _thought_ it was. He couldn't be sure; he'd never been told. From what Irina _had_ told him, he'd been specially chosen out of millions of children to participate in the program, and because he'd performed so well, she and her superiors had decided they needed to keep closer tabs on him, to mold him.

They had faked his death on the way home from the camp (four other camp children had 'died' as well, but he didn't remember who they were…it was so long ago and they were quickly separated). They told him that his old identity died that day and that he would never again use the name he had been born with. It was another lifetime ago for him…over the years of training (and probably mind conditioning, he supposed), he'd forgotten what his name used to be…a tactic he was sure they used so that he could never track down his real family. With no real family to go home to, he was truly stuck in the world of espionage.

From those first confusing, frightening weeks after the "accident", he had only one real memory: the kindness shown to him by Irina Derevko. She had soothed his fears, and held him on those nights when he was sick from missing his family. She had kept his other captors from being too harsh with him, allowing him to grieve for his old life before beginning anew.

From then on, Irina had explained, he would have a _new_ name, a secret name, one that only she and the people who knew him from camp would know: Sark. No first name, no last name…just Sark. He never knew whether his name had significance (as in possibly the name of where he had been from), or if it was simply a name, and he'd been trained never to ask.

That fall, he had been enrolled in one of England's best boarding schools: Ludgrove; the same school where the English princes had attended. And with that school came another new name…the one that everyone else had come to know him by: Alistair Bryce-Jones; a thoroughly English name if there ever was one.

Since it was a school where only the wealthiest and most well bred boys went, it was not such a shock that his every need appeared taken care of, even though his 'parents' were never around. Sark always had plenty of money supplied to him so as to 'properly maintain his cover' of a well-to-do Brit. But while he had fit in easily and had been well liked by others, he himself had always felt a space, a difference between himself and the other boys, which was easily understood considering his peculiar circumstance. While he pretended at friendships, in fact, to him they were simply a means to an end, a way to get through those dark years without having to allow anyone to actually get close to him.

The same remained true when he was accepted to Eton College. His 'parents' were never seen, but it was not uncommon for the upper-crust children to go many months without seeing their families. He played the part with uncanny ease born from years of necessity.

The only time in his life that he seemed to enjoy during his formative years had been his summers. Instead of a summer holiday like the rest of his 'friends' from school, his summers consisted of six weeks of spy training, year after year. The good thing about that was that he was always in the company of Irina Derevko. She became a sort of surrogate mother to him, and she certainly took him under her wing as one of her brightest pupils. Once she explained something to him, he didn't need to be told twice. In truth, he would do anything to gain her favor, and often did.

Irina had handpicked him on several occasions for 'training missions', as early as age 13. These missions had been 'their little secret', something neither of them had ever revealed to the others attending the camps, nor told the other instructors about. He was a natural, she'd said, and almost as a reward, she treated him more like a son than a student. She had been the only bright spot in an otherwise very gray life.

It was no surprise then that once he'd graduated Eton that she'd contacted him to come to work for her. She explained that she was no longer affiliated with the others that had trained him and that this would involve different sorts of missions, but it hadn't mattered to him. All that mattered was that _she_ had wanted him. Of all the kids she could have chosen, she had chosen _him_. He was grateful. She was the best spy he'd ever seen, and her choice meant that she believed _he_ was one of the best as well. And, at times during the dark, lonely nights, he could almost admit to himself that he sometimes still felt like that 7-year-old boy clinging to the only mother figure he ever remembered having.

It was under Irina's employ that he had first met Alison Doren. She had also been a child spy taken from her parents and raised by the KGB. Irina had not been directly involved in her development the way she had been with his, but she had kept close tabs on Alison's development and made sure to bring her into her circle as soon as she'd graduated school. He and Alison soon found they had much in common and immediately formed a bond. Unlike him, she had been allowed to keep her old name, although she knew nothing about her parents either. The deep sense of loneliness they'd grown up with seemed to ease when they were together.

He was not sure if he could call what they had together love, since he wasn't sure if he truly knew what that was…but it was probably the closest thing to love he'd ever have the chance to experience. His chosen field had its risks, Irina had told him, and falling in love was a risk she had warned him not to take. He'd never asked the reason for her vehemence in that area, because just talking about it seemed to bring such sadness to her eyes, and he hated to see Irina sad.

Later, of course, he'd learned about her deep cover assignment: the one that had procured her and the KGB with the intel needed for the spy-child program she had developed and that he had been a part of. He'd learned of her husband and child, the ones she'd been forced to abandon. What the sadness in her eyes told him, in the moments of weakness she'd rarely show to others, was that the leaving had been harder for her than she ever wanted to admit. Maybe _that_ was why she had been so kind to him over the years…out of guilt for what she had done to her own child.

_Yes, Sydney Bristow…_ Sark thought, _what a delightfully complex character._ He was both envious of Sydney for being Irina's blood progeny, and sorry for her for not receiving the attention he himself had received. From what he'd been able to learn about her, both firsthand and otherwise, she was an incredible agent; her skills certainly on par with her mother's. Her marked abilities had been proven several times: her escape from the guards in the government building in Russia, her escape from the ice in Siberia and from the lab in Taipei…_twice_.

But Sydney Bristow had one marked difference from Irina: her inability to compartmentalize her emotions when it came to the people she cared about. It had been disgustingly easy to coerce her into complying with his plan to deliver Arvin Sloane into his hands. He was quite sure that her compliance had much less to do with the threat of the acid as it did with procuring the serum she had stolen. She had sold her soul in order to save a life…she'd been willing to destroy everything she had been working for—the destruction of SD-6 and the Alliance—just to save the life of her precious CIA 'handler'. _What was it about this man,_ Sark wondered, _that made him special enough to the famous Sydney Bristow to risk everything to save him while she wouldn't even give __**him**__, the one person closer to a sibling to her than she would ever know, one civil word?_

The sound of the metal grates sliding apart pulled Sark from his thoughts. Sitting up, he watched as the last of the three gates opened and admitted none other than the very man on which he had been pondering. One look at Michael Vaughn's face told Sark that this was not going to be a pleasant encounter.

As the airlock on his cell door whooshed open, he stood, wanting to meet Agent Vaughn on more equal footing. "Well, Agent Vaughn," Sark began with his normal condescending tone, "to what do I owe the great honor of your presence?"

Vaughn's reply was to grab Sark by the arm, twist it quickly behind his back and slam him up against the glass wall of the cell…_hard_. "Since you seem to be so fond of games…" Vaughn sneered into Sark's ear, "I thought we could play one of our own. It's called 20 Questions."

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that form of entertainment," Sark replied, his voice remaining calm and pleasant in the face of this latest indignity, "You'll need to explain it to me."

Vaughn yanked Sark's body away from the glass and shoved him in the direction of the metal bench. "Sit," he ordered.

Sark turned around to face Vaughn and crossed his arms in front of him. "I prefer to stand," he replied.

"That was _not_ a request," Vaughn seethed, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Sit down, or trust me, I'll _make_ you sit."

Reluctantly, Sark seated himself on the uncomfortable bench, waiting.

"The game I'm referring to," Vaughn explained, "goes like this: I ask you questions and you answer them. It's that simple. And trust me, you will _want_ to answer them, because the alternative will _not_ be pleasant."

"I am familiar with your laws, Mr. Vaughn," Sark replied. "I understand the rights that I have as a detainee of the US Government."

"Not anymore. Under the Patriot Act, you are considered a threat to National Security and therefore you _have_ no rights, Sark. We can hold you forever if we want without ever charging you of a single crime. Rest assured that no one will be asking questions about your…treatment," Vaughn said, a threat clearly implied in his tone.

"What is it you wish to know?" Sark asked, with a touch of the typical British snobbishness he was known for.

"I want to know what you know about the second double, A. G. Doren," Vaughn answered.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about," Sark lied outright. He'd be damned before he would give up Alison, especially to _this_ man.

Vaughn grabbed the material of Sark's uniform shirtfront roughly and elbowed him in the side of the head hard. "Wrong answer," he snarled. "Try again. We already know Doren took the identity of Francine Calfo, and that she was placed there by Sloane. What else can you tell me about her?"

Shaking his head to clear it, Sark asked, "If you know all this, then why are you asking _me_? Why not ask this double you claim exists?"

"That would be impossible at this point. She's dead."

Sark's face blanched and he swallowed hard. He'd meant to only think it, but he was so shocked that he said it aloud. "Alison's dead!?"


End file.
